


paint me like one of them dead girls

by junieyes



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Game: Resident Evil 2, Gen, could be considered an unamed OC in the second POV, maybe a kiss, slight AU, slowburn, the world is ending but damn if you aren't trying to woo that cute 90s bombshell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-10-04 15:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junieyes/pseuds/junieyes
Summary: “Leon – Leon, shoot the eye! Shoot the eye!”“You shoot the eye!”“You trust me that much?!”“I can duck!”“Bullets?!”Frantic and too anxious to use the handgun, you throw a flash grenade. It doesn’t do anything. Despite being chased by a mutated and inhuman monster, Leon still has time to throw you an incredulous look.In your stupidity, you forgot to pull the pin.(Alternatively: It is September 1998. You are nineteen years old and living in Racoon City. Or, you were, until about five days ago. Now you're just surviving, and badly at that. But hey, at least you've got Leon Kennedy by your side, right?)(Alternatively alternatively: Your life sucks. The end.)





	1. Chapter 1

It’s pouring rain outside, solid sheets hitting hard against the window.

You peek through the blinds, scanning the street and the distant outline of the city. It’s clear. The tension in your shoulders dissolves and you hold onto the relaxed feeling for as long as possible.

It’s been five days since the initial outbreak, and you’ve far surpassed your initial hysteria. Now the fear keeps you composed and alert, and you’ve successfully barricaded yourself indoors. After letting frantic stupidity have its run during the first two days, you’d started organising your stockpile.

Bandages and medicine, a collection of green and red herbs, canned and packaged food – all of it helpfully <strike>stolen</strike> _borrowed_ from a few corner stores and little grocers you’d come across on the way to your current headquarters. They’re packed in a moderately sized duffle by the coffee table.

Feeling frazzled again because anything could be lurking under the cover of the rain, your paranoia resurging out of nowhere but with good reason, you run your fingers through your hair and pace agitatedly against the carpeted flooring of the small apartment you’ve found yourself in. The butcher’s knife secured to your belt scrapes against the fabric of your jeans with every step. It’s not _your_ apartment – yours is probably on fire, full of zombies and dead bodies. You won’t be going back anytime soon.

Besides your college textbooks, there isn’t anything majorly important left behind that you hadn’t been carrying on you.

The watch your mother bought you is still strapped around your wrist and your favourite, large hooped earrings dangling from your lobes have yet to be ripped out by wandering hands. Other than that, you’ve only got the clothes on your back – and you’ve been wearing them for five days now. It must be magic that you haven’t started smelling musty just yet. Or maybe it’s completely masked itself by the scent of fear.

The only thing you can think of that would be immensely useful right now is the handheld radio that should be sitting on your nightstand. It’s probably broken by now, if not burnt up to a nice, plastic crisp. You’d give up an arm and a leg to hear a local news report. Every time you turn on the little TV propped on an end table in the corner of the room, all it does is replay the evacuation warning from the 24th.

It’s no use. They stopped evacuating as soon as they started, and the police can’t be trusted. They’d started shooting people in the line ups – it’s pure luck and good timing that you managed to evade the massacre, having been in the bathroom at the time. As soon as you were finished peeing you ran right out of there and to the other side of the city in search of a way out.

There isn’t one. Not from Racoon City or your nightmares. The roads are barricaded, contact with the outside world is completely cut off, the streets are littered with the walking dead, and anyone in a uniform or carrying a gun is someone to be wary of.

But you can’t stay here forever. They’ll find you eventually, and they’ll _eat you_. For real. Without killing you or seasoning you. They’ll eat you _raw_.

Stopping your pacing which had become more hurried as time passed, breath still coming quick but that isn’t unusual anymore, you peek through the blinds again.

The rain has stopped to a light drizzle, the night looking damp and dreary. You squint against the fuzziness of the window, trying to pinpoint the flickering lights beyond and the general area where you know the police station is. The massive clock is only barely visible, hidden by smoke and other buildings.

Days ago, they’d advised any remaining survivors to seek shelter at the RPD, but you’d refused. Despite telling your friends and several strangers what you’d seen, they took off anyway. You hope they’re not dead. Or worse. But if they are… you hope you don’t ever come across them.

But you’ve got no choice now. You can either sit here and wait until the government sends reinforcements in, probably killing everything and anything left within the city to quarantine it, meaning _you’ll_ _die_ – or, you can, again, try and find your own way out. Even if there’s no help at the station, they’ll have weapons. Guns. Something you can defend yourself with.

But to be honest, your dead either way. It’s just a matter of how you want to die.

You whimper unashamedly.

You really, really don’t want to leave this apartment.

And maybe you shouldn’t? Forget about reinforcements and secret government organisations. Put the conspiracy theories to rest. If you ignore your supplies and don’t eat, you’ll starve to death. If you go out, you’ll be eaten to death. The slower death inside sounds less painful than the one outside.

Yeah, you know what? this sounds like a better idea. Who’re you fooling? Of course you have a choice, and your choice is to stay in this tiny ass apartment until you die of _natural _causes. You nod your head vigorously to this line of thought, not caring how crazy you must look. Nobody’s alive left to see it.

You’re a coward, you are. You’d rather deal with the hunger pains and delusions, living your last several days lonely, depressed and paranoid.

And no shame about it too – dumb ideas worked the first two days. Not anymore.

Slapping your cheeks for being so stupid, you throw yourself onto the years-weary couch, deeply sniffing the heady scent of tobacco and old beer. You could even sleep until you die, provided no one interrupts you. If only you had some music.

Staring blankly at the ceiling and feeling calm – as calm anyone can be, in this situation–you slowly let yourself drift away to the light pitter-patter outside.

You’ve put yourself into a low doze, absently humming the chorus to _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ over and over because you’ve forgotten the rest of the lyrics. It’s as you get to _take me dancing tonigghhhhht_ again that you hear it.

Terror strikes your heart in the same likeness of lightning striking a tree.

You're up on your feet in seconds, staring wide-eyed at the barricaded apartment door. Your breath comes out harsh and loud, and the fearful anticipation that has been simmering in your veins like chicken broth on medium heat immediately starts to boil. Every nerve in your body is sensitive and alight with fright.

They’re here.

A moment of deadly quiet passes – you strain your ears, stepping backward around the coffee table. There it is again. The prickling sound of something dragging against carpet. Like a wooden bat too heavy to lift, a small dresser being moved around, or a basket of laundry idly nudge along the ground.

Except it’s not any of those.

You press your lips together tightly, trembling. Fingers brush against the wall, sliding frantically until they meet the sill. Fuck it. Fuck it – fuck it – _fuck it_!

Your eyes dart to the duffel. Should you take it–? 

A belching and groaning screech vibrates the air.

Never mind! You don’t need it. Time to go. You turn on your feet and slide the glass up. The fire-escape is empty and you hastily climb on to it, forcing yourself through the window. It’s awkward and hurts and everything is slippery wet outside – but you get out. _You get out_.

It seems like fleeing in fear is the only thing you’re good at nowadays.

Down the steps and ladder, metal thudding painstakingly loud in your ears as your feet hit hard against the grating, it takes every ounce of will you still have to stop yourself from sitting your ass down and start wailing.

You’re only nineteen – you still have two years of university left, your best friends are M.I.A, your dog is probably dead by now and you just want your mom. If anyone is too young and pretty to die like this, it’s you!

At least the rain has stopped.

Sniffling as you lower yourself down, hands holding onto the fire escape – you refuse to unlock the ladder because if there’s one thing you know, it’s that it’ll be _loud_, and these thing flock to noise the same way serial killers flock to useless girls in horror flicks – you close your eyes for several seconds before letting go of the landing. Your sneaker-clad feet thud against the pavement, knees bending to absorb the impact.

You made it.

Wiping your wet palms on your jeans, you squint down the street in the direction that’ll take you to the RPD. Despite knowing everyone inside could very well be dead by now – or that no one had made it there to begin with – it’s the safest bet there is now. You refuse to risk walking on the highway out of here. It’s too open, and the walking dead are fast.

Swallowing audibly, you take your first hesitant steps forward, pause to settle your nerves, and start again. On a normal day it should be a twenty-minute walk from hereabouts. But today isn’t a normal day, and it’s night time, and you can’t accurately recall the closest route. It’s too messy and unorganised in your mind’s office – all the filing cabinets are open and the little workers in your brain are too anxious to do their job properly. The archive files have flung themselves all across the floor. You’re just gonna have to follow the fires and hope you’re going the right way.

Breaking off into a light jog, you think how convenient it would be if you could jumpstart a car.

Maybe you’ll learn if you get out of here.

[--]

When you finally stumble within sight of the station, a light drizzle has worked itself up again. 

There’s blood on your hands and up your right arm, trailing across your entire front in a horrific splatter. It’s sticky and thick and looks like black tar against the vibrant neon of your jacket. This isn’t even mentioning the dried stains from days ago.

Killing is a lot harder than you’d expected. The first zombie you’d seen on your way here you accidentally flung the butcher’s knife at it. Not stab it, or butcher it – you fucking threw a knife at it. Didn’t do anything except make you _lose your only weapon_. 

After some ninth-grade acrobatic maneuvers you managed to skirt around the zombie, retrieve the knife with only a little bit of fumbling, and started hitting it as hard as you could.

Only when you’d dug it deep into the brain did it finally shut up and stop trying to eat you. You got the idea. Go for the brains, because nearly amputating its arm several times and piercing it right in the heart did absolutely jack.

Since then, you’d manage to kill three others and run away from the rest.

The white lights illuminating the giant RPD brings you relief in the same way a flood of water dousing the next-door fire brings. It gives you the same hope of survival that a lighthouse in a thick, rolling fog gives to a lost ship and it’s crew.

But when you’re eyes lower, spotting the crackling fires and abandoned and wrecked cars, zombies navigating around them like ants trying to find a breadcrumb you’d dropped days ago on the floor, you whimper. Your relief falls flat.

This is not good. This is _very_ not good.

They obviously can’t get in through the main gates, so it must be locked and blocked completely. You swiftly crouch-run to a car stationed closer and hide behind it. They haven’t sniffed your scent just yet, so you searching for another way in.

But it doesn’t look like you can go in any other way – both sides of the building are shrouded in shadows, and you’re not familiar enough with the station to know where the visitor’s car park and the main garage is. You’re not willing to risk any more than you have to, and going blind in search of an entrance around the station is a definite no-no. It’s just not worth the possible risk of death. A risk that’s higher than the risk you’re already in, that is.

There’s no other option. You gulp.

Only one way in and one chance to get it right. If you fail, might as well just impale yourself on the fence tops. If you die, you don’t wanna be zombie chow.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. You ready your feet, sneakers grinding slightly into the asphalt. Fingers curl around the bumper, body poised and ready. You really need to take a piss, preferably in safety where the undead can’t interrupt you. And that’s a good as a motivator as any.

Three, two, one–

The heady air snaps against your face as you suddenly dash forward, running like your mother is angry and brandishing a slipper threateningly behind you.

A zombie notices you and turns, arms raised. You dodge to the left and slide amongst the length of a car. It screeches behind you, and like that, all of them up against the gate turn. They’re all dumb, little moths and you’re the overheated kitchen strobe light. Can’t afford to think or feel – there’s no time.

You run, and run, and dodge and slide and hop, hauling yourself on to the roof of a car. It’s not out of reach of their hands but it’s exactly the advantage you need. Every time a hand brushes against your ankle or calf, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest. It’s hard landing a jump without tumbling down into their waiting arms, so you keep pushing forward, moving from one roof to a hood and onto another roof continuously, not letting yourself pause for even a moment.

There’s only a few yards left till you get to the brick wall sealing the RPD in. You scramble along the top of the two wrecked cars placed perfectly against the wall, and, with a mighty kick off from one foot, your other slams into the wall. The momentum lets you boost yourself upwards. Fingers wet with sweat and blood curl around the steel frame.

You gasp and haul yourself up.

Yes. Yes–yes–yes–_no!_

A cry escapes your lips as something pulls your foot down forcefully, tugging off your sneaker. You fucking loved that shoe, dammit! Those were expensive! Your back burns with the effort to lift your shoulders above the edge of the wall, but the zombies learn and start climbing the car as well.

Heart pounding and curses falling frantically from your lips, you kick your legs out furiously, battling them away. In the process, your other shoe fly’s off, and your knife falls from your hip. But this time it doesn’t matter, barely even registers. Because you’ve done it – arms quivering like the leaves of a tree in a hurricane, you manage to get your entire upper body above the wall, following it by tucking your legs onto the narrow ledge work.

Panting heavily, you look down. There’s so many of them. Gotta be like, fifty or something. You’d have cried tears of joy if this many people came to your sweet sixteenth.

They’re all moaning and groaning, arms outstretched with a single-minded purpose: to eat you. Periodically, a blood-curling shriek escapes their throats and every time your heart beats a little harder, your fingers clench a little tighter.

God, you did it. You fucking did it. You almost died and you lost your shoes, but you – oh, _you did it_.

“Hah!” you crow, egging them on. “I made it! I fucking made it! Why don’t y’all just eat each other’s dicks, cause you ain’t getting mine, bitch!”

That feels _so_ good.

You yell out a few more profanities that would have had your mother washing your mouth with soap if she could hear you now, before letting out a final “Woo!” and crawl over the pikes, lowering your body down the wall inside the safety of the front courtyard and drop down swiftly into a crouch. Your sock covered feet slam against the ground. At the same time, your bladder almost releases itself.

“Shit!”

At least you didn’t wet yourself during the run. How humiliating would that have been? Forget about having your intestines falling out and your trachea torn from your throat – you would’ve died right then and there.

You stand up and turn and, for the first time in days, the constant cloud of paranoia and fear that’d been hovering over you dissipates. You’re exhausted, can barely move a muscle now that the crowd of people-eaters is behind you – literally – but damn it all if the sight of the brightly lit Raccoon City Police Department doesn’t make you smile. 

You can now pee in relative safety. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a working gun and some leftover ammo. You’re nearly certain that it doesn’t require a lot of skill or any skill at all to the point the barrel at your head and shoot.

Starving yourself, really? You’re too much of a sissy to deal with the pain.

Time to get this over with, cause there ain’t any other way out of this hellhole but death.


	2. Chapter 2

Your first objective is to find a bathroom. 

Raccoon City might be dead and the world may be ending but you still have dignity. You refuse to release several bottles worth of pee and crap when you finally kick the rusty ole bucket. How degrading would that be? You’d never live it down in the afterlife. 

Surveying the main hall lit up by warm, yellow lamplight, an odd sort of serenity settles into your bones. As quick as it came, the adrenaline driving on the freeway in your body finally takes an exit off, leaving you exhausted. 

To your right is a little plaque on the wall denoting a bathroom symbol. Just what you need. The direction it’s pointing to is one of those high-security doorways that reminds you of the folding garage door in your apartment complex. It’d be perfect and wholly convenient if not for the fact that someone had stuck a note to it blatantly saying, “KEEP OUT”. 

There’s also the matter of the crushed skull and pool of blood. You hold in a barf. This isn’t a horror movie: if it says keep out, you’re keeping out. Guess that means no bathroom break – and no vomit break either. 

You look away. 

Bodies are littered across the floor like random trash at a park; blood is smeared across almost every bench and every other object that isn’t nailed down is strewn chaotically across the room. You don’t need to imagine the havoc that happened here because you can already see it your head. It’s an awful reminder of the first night when everything went to shit. 

All these people – all your friends… 

You cry. 

Quietly, in shuddering breaths and little sniffles. Your entire body trembles. It feels worse than when you cried for yourself – loud, unrestrained selfish sobbing in a stranger’s tiny bathroom. Here, the endless downpour of water cleanses your cheeks from dirt, sweat, and blood. Your chest twists painfully. Maybe if you cry hard and long enough, all the pee from your bladder will travel up to your eyes and come out as tears. 

God, you should’ve just stayed at the apartment. 

You’re so fucking stupid. It must’ve only been one zombie. It probably hadn’t even known you were there. You don’t think it would’ve gotten through the door, barricaded by a heavy desk and some chairs; everything that you could pick up and stack, you did. 

You could have starved to death safely curled up on the couch, hidden underneath a scratchy blanket that didn’t belong to you, listening to the dreadful music of their groaning. It would have been some shitty last days, but you wouldn’t have had to run for your life like you did outside, and you wouldn’t be here seeing, well – all this. Dead horror hangs in the air. 

It’s an impossible fate to escape. There’s only one way out. This deadly solitude is as scary as the enraged, glutinous horde outside. 

You curse yourself. The apartment had a bathroom. The toilet was clean, and it had toilet paper too. Why hadn’t that been a good enough reason to stay? You still need to pee. 

You rub your eyes and take a deep breath. Come on, slow breaths. Hold for seven, release in six, breath in for another four. Emotionally, you’re not feeling any better, but you’re not so unsteady on your feet anymore after several minutes of this. It’s time to start moving and explore. That gun isn’t going to magically find itself. 

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” 

You muffle a startled shriek and snap around to the officer that appeared out of nowhere. Your heart races so hard you swear it’s two seconds away from pumping its way out of your chest. 

It’s a person. Oh, God, it’s a _person._ A real, live, _living_ person. 

Your mouth drops open. Nothing he says makes sense; your ears are totally zoned out because you’re just so in shock. But you see his lips moving, forming words rather inhumane screeches. 

Holy shit. You find it hard to believe. Because fuck, a person. 

You must be psychic because you swear you have a vision; suddenly you see a spark of hope in your future. Just a little snap of yellow and blue on an almost empty lighter. It’s so little that it shouldn’t mean a thing, but Lord this is the most hope you’ve felt in the past five days that suddenly you can’t even think about killing yourself. 

You throw that plan in a deep ditch at the side of the road. The coyotes can eat it for all you care. 

“Ma’am, I can’t help you if you don’t speak to me.” 

“I–I’m fine,” you croak and wipe your wet cheeks till they dry. “better than fine.” 

The officer gives you an uncertain look, but nods. He’s got a hand protectively against his side, blood soaking into the blue of his shirt. You know what that means, but it doesn’t damper your newfound spirits. He looks like he still has some life left to him; a bit pale in the face and sickly, but his body is alert. He could help you get out of here. And, if worse comes to worst – he’s got a threatening looking gun in that holster of his. 

“Are you injured?” 

You shake your head. 

He sighs, face pained and nods over to somewhere behind him. “Over here.” 

In the next five minutes you learn that his name is Marvin Branagh, he is thirty-six years old, has been married once but got a divorce a few months back, has three dogs named Wags, Cattle and Derek, and his favourite colour is yellow. 

You tell him that you’re only nineteen – his face falls and swears something unholy under his breath – and that you also have a dog, her name is Dumpling, your favourite colour is pink, you’ve never been married but you’d always hoped you would when you got older, and that you were going to be a history teacher when you finished university. 

You’ve never felt so good about having simple small talk with an officer. What really makes your day, however, is when he tells you that there are, in fact, _three people_ currently still alive in this station. You, obviously, and him, but also a rookie cop by the name of Leon Kennedy. 

You blink, looking around the room as if he’ll suddenly appear if you search hard enough. “Where is he?” 

Marvin points to the giant statue of the goddess nearby. It’s an odd piece of artwork for a police station. “You see that statue? It opens up to a tunnel that leads out of here – but it’s missing pieces. That’s what Leon’s doing. Looking for them.” You feel inspired. He must be doing that on purpose. 

But then he looks at you, and sighs, and then groans in pain. You watch him worriedly as he repeats this cycle, feeling helpless. “He’ll be happy to see you. There aren't many living things in here.” 

First off – what the fuck? Why the hell does a police station have a secret door? For what purpose does it even need one? You won’t lie, it fills you with immense pleasure knowing that there’s another way out of here other than the front doors, but you’re also incredibly cautious about this. It just doesn’t seem normal. Nothing about these past five days have been normal. 

What if it’s booby-trapped, like Indiana Jones or James Bond? You can’t outrun giant boulders. You’ll die of fright first. 

Putting the negativity aside though, it’s pleasing news nonetheless. Because really, how convenient is that? A secret entrance? Sure, the puzzle thing sucks, who the hell has time for that? Couldn’t a bookcase have been easier? But there’s a way out, so you start crying again. 

You thought you were going to die dirty and tragically. You haven’t showered in five days and it’s disgusting. Walking in the rain doesn’t count. Your shoes are gone, which you spent fifty dollars on, and your very nice jacket which is just so in trend this season is absolutely ruined – it looks like you accidentally got a bit of blue and orange on your bloody jacket than the other way around. And your jeans! There are holes in your jeans. Not stylish, fashionable holes but holes that look like you decided to take an illegal joyride on a motorcycle and crashed stupidly into a tree. 

Poor Marvin, looking at you helplessly and distressed. You smile tearily. “I’m just really happy. Really, really happy.” 

It’s a waiting game after that. 

You use the time to explore the main hall, feeling more confident than you have in days. You’re not afraid to turn boxes over, move stacks of books around and push cabinets back into place. There’s a lot of random items lying around. You try not to think about how they probably belonged to the people lying dead on the ground. 

You pick up a sturdy RDP backpack. It’s got an unopened water bottle and some granola bars, hand-wipes, and a new copy of _ Pet Sematary by_ Stephen King. You take the book out and lay it on top of a cabinet. You won’t be needing that. 

Across the other side of the room in some drawers you find a pair of handcuffs. You dangle it from your finger, curious. You get the feeling that this shouldn’t be out in such an open area where anyone could steal it – like you – but it sure is handy. Maybe you won’t be handcuffing some zombies and detaining them for arrest but you can think of a few ways to lock some doors and windows if it comes down to it. You stash them in your bag. 

Digging deeper into the mess, you make the ultimate discovery: a first aid kit. And not one of those basic ones either. It’s got just about everything you could possibly need for any occasion. It’s too big to fit into the backpack but you don’t see the need to empty it out when it’s already organised so well. You bring your findings to Marvin. 

“I found this hidden by some seats,” you say, showing him the green first aid box, shaking it by the handle. It’s not heavy. You can definitely run around carrying this. Now you won’t be so useless. You’ll be the unqualified, on-field medic. “We can patch up your side. Here, I’ve taken a first aid course before.” 

You did it with your friend's ages ago. Friends who are probably dead. You hope it serves you better than it did them. You lean forward with an inviting hand, but Marvin stops you. 

“No,” he grunts, shaking and leaning away. “it’s too late now. I only have a few hours left; I can feel it. Hopefully you’ll be out of here by then.” 

You frown, uncertain. Not because you think he can be saved – he can’t, he’s already infected and there’s no coming back from that; you’ve accepted this reality days ago – but because the least you can do is make him comfortable. No one deserves to die a slow, agonising death. You sift through the variety of foil pill packets and pull out one that you recognise. “How about pain killers?” 

He shakes his head again. “No–no–you might need it. I can’t.” 

You purse your lips, unhappy with his decision but don’t push it. You don’t want to upset him. It might make his condition worse. You’re not a scientist or a doctor but you’ve read it in an article somewhere that stress can make an illness worse. 

(you’re also a little thankful – you might actually need it later) 

You decide to venture the second floor instead. There’s not much hiding up there but you do spot a few red and green herbs. Delighted, and thinking how weird but also amazing it is that the station is stocked with so many handy things, you gently carry the little potted plants back downstairs with you. 

They taught you this important piece of info in high-school: the green herbs are for wounds, fatigue and infection, red herbs to enhance the effect, and blue herbs for poisons. You don’t remember the scientific names or even the generally accepted names, but the colours are distinct enough that identification is easy. 

After cleaning your hands with the hand wipes, you start to pluck the leaves from the green herb, piling them neatly on a clean sheet of parchment you ripped out from a notebook. Not the cleanest thing you've got, but it's all you have on had. Marvin watches interestedly as you start rinsing the leaves with the water bottle and tie them into bundles – four leaves is enough to chew on and make a paste – before stacking them neatly in the first aid kit. You make sure to add one red leaf to every three green ones. 

When you pulled all-nighters during school, which is a still common occurrence in university, you’d pop in a green leaf and chew on it while you worked. Besides its health purposes, it’s also basically the equivalent of taking a shot of straight caffeine. Coffee? Forget coffee. Have some weed herbs. 

You chew on one right now, feeling a little less tired and more awake again. 

Having exhausted all the actions you can think to take right now, you curl up on the floor for a light doze. Just a little cat nap. You deserve it after everything you’ve been through. 

You’d have taken the other couch, but you’re not _that stupid_. If Marvin turns without you noticing, it’s easier to book it from the floor than it is from the couch. You’d have to jump across the caches and random assortment of objects to get safely away. 

Muttering to yourself in the same way you’ve taken to in the past several days living alone, cataloging everything in your bag and what you can recall is in the first aid kit, your eyes soon flutter shut. 

You hope that when Leon finally comes back to the main hall, he’ll be able to help you find a pair of shoes. A pair that you don’t have to take off of someone’s feet, preferably. 

** [--] **

An unexpected growl sends you shooting onto your knees, fingers grabbing the nearest, sharpest object: an oddly shaped, bronze trophy. You don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but it has a lot of pointy branches and that’s all that matters. 

Your heart beats rapidly and several squeaks escape your throat. Every nerve in your body is suddenly awake and vigilant. 

Your first instinct is to throw it. You stop that instinct. Last time you followed it you’d lost your only weapon and the zombie hadn’t even died. 

It’s a woman this time. 

Her ankle is broken and heavily bruised, the bone jutting out through a break in the skin. She moves like she doesn’t care that she’s grievously injured; her arms are raised towards you, hands and forearms drenched in blood. You think she’s in her thirties and only recently turned because her face isn’t as grotesque and hideously ruined like many others you’ve seen. There are still patches of red eyeshadow above her tired lids and if you dare chance a quick look at her mouth there’s a faint hint of blue lipstick under the dark, thick blood spilling out from between her yellow teeth. 

You absently think that if she wasn’t so obviously dead and ready to eat your guts out, she’d be superiorly pretty. Supermodel pretty even. In need of a better wardrobe maybe, but those cheekbones are killing it. 

This saddens you for a moment – but only a moment because then she makes an ear-splitting noise that has you flinching away and stumbling over your feet when she surges forward. 

Get yourself together! Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless. 

You scurry back, constantly keeping yourself out of arm’s reach. You vaguely note how Marvin doesn’t seem to have noticed anything happening, and then belatedly realise that you can hear grunting. Not the type of grunting the dead make, like they’re constipated and starving at the same time – but the grunting of someone possibly struggling from an intense workout. Or, you know, a life or death situation. 

Shimming up the stairs on the right side of the hall, you quickly reach over and snatch an abandoned and chewed up tennis ball. Why it’s there, you don’t know, but god if it ain’t convenient. You throw it and it hits her forehead hard, momentarily stunning her. 

And that’s your opportunity. 

Without thinking it through, you rush down, dodging her swinging right arm and aggressively slapping her left arm away; raising the trophy towards the ceiling you smash it forcefully through her eye and deep into her brain. It makes a wet squishy sound, kind of like when you slap raw chicken onto a cutting board and fondle it. Or when you stick your fingers into smelly putty. 

It’s no less disgusting than every other time you’ve done it. You’ll never become desensitised to this; you don’t think you’re capable of that. 

Her eyes are cloudy but you swear you can see that behind it, whoever she’d been before she became this – she fades. Her body slackens and falls, and you let go of the trophy. 

She’s gone. 

You swallow heavily and look away. Just one more dead thing to plague your sleep. 

Someone grunts again, followed by a deep, guttural sound. 

Shit. That doesn’t sound good. Understatement of the fucking year. 

Quickly, you jog up the rest of the stairs, turning sharply around the corner leading onto the upper left walkway. 

There’s a guy in police gear lying on his back and fending off a zombie. The double door is half open and you can partially see another trying to crawl its way through. His gun is a yard away lying next to a dead body. 

Weary and upset, you don’t think. You just do. 

Blink. The gun is in your hands. The only familiarity you have with firearms is a familiarity born from watching too much crime TV. 

Just point and shoot, right? 

You clench it tightly between your bloody hands and aim at the zombie’s head. 

Blink. The trigger pulls. Your arm jerks, going up, and the bullet hits it in the lower back. Way off aim. 

The sound rings loud in your ear, causing you to squint. Your eyes having nothing to do with your ears but it’s the only functional body part currently willing to listen to your brain. 

Although the shot went wild it’s enough of a distraction that the officer – it must be Leon Kennedy, it has to be – can finally shove the zombie away. He leans up and twists, smashing his elbow down into its face, cracking its skull and spilling brain matter brutally across the floor. 

You stare blankly, mouth hanging stupidly open. 

He stands up, limps towards you and gently takes the gun from your slack hands, before expertly killing the pathetic zombie stuck in the door. It’s dead after three shots. 

Well, alright. Now you know how stupid your initial plan was. You’d have missed your fucking head if you tried killing yourself. 

Shit. Holy shit. You need a nap, a really long and nice nap that’ll leave you feeling sweaty and thinking it’s the next day when you wake up. 

Or a drink. You hate vodka but you can acknowledge that five shots straight and your down for the count. 

And dammit! You still need a bathroom. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

The curious and kind voice snaps you out of your funk. There’s a gloved hand waving in your line of sight and you stare at it dumbly for a few seconds until you realise it’s an offer for help. 

You take it and haul yourself up. When did you fall down? 

“I,” you start on a deep inhale, a tad breathless. “am doing _so fine_. Great, actually.” 

You’re not but if you say it enough you might eventually be. 

Leon grasps your elbows, holding them firmly. It grounds you down into reality. “Are you injured? You’re not going to die on me, are you? We just met,” his smile is soft with concern, looking you up and down. “I don’t think it’d look good on my record if you did.” 

Hah. Funny. 

You shake your head rapidly. “No, no, but I think I might pee myself.” 

He blinks, startled, and laughs. It’s a lovely laugh. You haven’t heard anyone laugh in five days. The mere sound of his voice, that smooth, breathless quality to it – something inside of you quiets. Truly quiets. You could listen to him talk for days. 

You don’t feel as jittery anymore, and very consciously you realise that you’re not trembling either. It’s a miracle. Is it his laugh? You should make him do it some more. Or maybe it’s meeting another living person who, as far as you can see, isn’t about to die or seriously wounded. It was nice talking to Marvin, but you won’t fool yourself. He’ll be dead before this night ends and there’s no stopping it. 

“I’m Leon–“ 

“Kennedy? _Leon Kennedy _?” you interrupt, desperately, and introduce yourself. You nod over to the first floor when confusion wrinkles his forehead. “Officer Branagh told me. He said you were solving that statue thing.” 

Leon shakes his head. “Yeah, I am. I actually have two right here.” He pulls them out from one of the endless number of pockets he has and shows you the two bronze medallions; one with a unicorn embossed on it, of all things, and the other a lion. You tentatively run a finger down one, thinking that this really is a weird-ass police station. Why do they just casually have these lying around? Who made this shit up and thought they were being clever? 

After re-pocketing them, Leon rubs his neck, brows furrowed but sends you another small smile when you give him a worried look. “This probably sounds a little weird,” he interrupts himself, laughing again. It’s tired, a little warier. Not as humoured. “But I’m really glad to meet you. I’ve barely seen anyone alive, it’s – uh, nice.” 

You get what he means. 

“When did you get here?” he asks. He looks down at your feet. “And where're your shoes?” 

You shuffle, eyeing your socks. The cute dog pattern is gone, stained red and brown. You wiggle your toes and grimace at the sticky feeling between some of them. It’s incredibly gross and makes you want to cry again. If it were just Marvin you wouldn’t fight the tears from falling loose – but for some reason, you really don’t want to give in to that urge and break down for the fiftieth time this week. 

Maybe it’s so you can prove to Leon that you can hold your weight, that you aren’t a little wuss. That you won’t start crying over the most stupid and inane things, no matter how appealing that sounds. 

Because like hell will you let him leave you down here in the main hall, waiting anxiously for him to come back safely while Marvin gets worse and worse. You refuse to be left on your own, even if you are a deadweight. You’re gonna help him get the both of you out of here if it’s the last thing you ever do. 

(which it probably won’t be – the last thing you’ll do is cry at the futility of life or something) 

“Not that long ago?” You shrug and finally toe off the socks, kicking them indignantly onto the dead body near your feet. It’s insensitive and a little rude but you don’t think they have it in them to quite care anymore. They’d sooner eat you than take this up to court. 

You wiggle your toes. The nail polish gleams immaculately in the warm lighting. Despite the horrors of this night, at least there are some things that can still make you happy, your pretty blue polish being one of them. “I, uh, had to climb the wall outside. There’s a herd out there; one of them grabbed my shoe and the other kind of just fell off.” 

“Wait, you climbed?” 

Oh, shit, he’s a cop and you just admitted to fence-hopping the police station. But what’s he gonna do, arrest you? Nobody’ll take your case. There’s nobody to take your case. 

“Yes,” you sniff. “You got a problem with that?” 

“What?” Leon shakes his head. “No! That’s – pretty cool, actually. It’s convenient. I don’t think I could have done that.” 

“Oh,” you blink, and smile, a little embarrassed. It’s not the most life-saving skill, to be honest. You’re pretty sure you’ve used up all your chances; you’re out of jumping ammo now. “Thanks.” 

He grins, and you suddenly notice how close he is and how he’s still holding onto your arms, grip tightening just a little. If this was happening at any other point of time in any other city, you’d be swooning by now; usually you’ve got a whole deck of pick-up lines that you aren’t afraid to share with the world. But you’re not feeling yourself right now and all you can think about is how good it feels to be held by someone that doesn’t want to eat you for a change. It’s not flirty in the least. 

If – _ when _ – you get out of this damned city, maybe you’ll ask him out for coffee, or to the circus, anything. Because you’ve got eyes, and Leon is pretty. Really pretty. And it is really, really not the time for this. 

(He’s got _those_ eyes, the ones that burn your retinas like a garden of bright, baby blues. In a charming way, of course. He dips his head when he smiles at you, that totally trendy haircut framing his face adorably, and his nose screws up in a move of absolute perfection. You wouldn’t mind waking up to that face every morning. Or having his babies. Or, you know, just talking to him like any normal person would.) 

He looks down at your feet again. “We need to find you a pair somewhere around here. It’s not safe to walk around.” 

Confidently, Leon toes your bare feet with his shoe. You really hate feet, but you forgive him for this transgression. It’s not like whatever gunk is on his shoes can get you any dirtier. But mostly because that spark of hope? It isn’t just a spark anymore. It’s starting to feel like a flame, and it leaves you absolutely delighted and warmed. All thanks to him. He deserves some slack. 

“That sounds like a great idea.” 

Down in the main area, Marvin’s got a laptop out showing some live surveillance tapes on screen. When did he bring this out? Last you saw he looked three-fourths dead. Leon peers around to check it out, but you’re more interested in Marvin’s coughing – actually, coughing is too nice of a descriptor for the bloody hacking that makes him shake with every wet rattle that forcefully leaves his throat. It sounds like every organ in his body has combined efforts to procure the sickly sound. 

“You two, have a look at this.” Marvin types something, bringing up a camera from outside of the station it looks like. It’s a little hard to see because of the grainy quality and the blinding white light from what seems to be a lamppost – but you see it. Or her, actually. 

You gasp. 

Another human! A girl! This night just keeps getting better and better, and you don’t even mean that sarcastically. 

But God, how sad is it that the current highlight of your week is discovering that living people still exist? Everything about this is so messed up. 

“Yes!” Leon exclaims, relief flickering across his face. “I knew she’d make it!” 

“You know her?” 

“Yeah, her name is Claire.” His eyes are glued to the scene. “I came into town with her.” 

Marvin sucks in a painful breath. “You can get to that courtyard through the second floor, east side.” 

“I’m on it.” 

You look up at the second floor, where Marvin pointed. “You think she’ll have extra shoes on hand?” 

Leon shakes his head. “We can probably find some boots in the locker rooms. I’ll go there first, and then meet up with Claire.” 

“Nuh-uh,” you interject, grabbing his arm. “I am so not staying here while you go off running around. I’m coming with you.” 

He grabs your hand, squeezing it comfortingly before letting go. “Hey, I know you’re scared, but you’ll be safer here. Promise. And between you and me, I have training. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry.” 

You squint, annoyed by his tone of voice. It’s that smooth, cliché, condescending ‘talking to a civilian’ tone that the cops always use on Crime TV. You are so not falling for it. “It’s not safe anywhere. You know how many people must’ve come here in the past several days? Probably like, half the city that was still alive! I’m pretty sure they’re all dead by now.” 

You’re right and he knows it. He purses his lips. “Can you defend yourself?” 

“Well,” you stutter, and then shrug shamelessly. Well, no point hiding it. “I can run. And dodge. And I can carry things for you! Like ammo and herbs and stuff.” You excitedly show him your backpack and the first aid kit you found earlier. “And I have a little first aid knowledge. So, yeah.” You nod firmly and stand taller, trying to show him the determination that had steadily built itself up inside of you as you stood your ground. “I’m coming.” 

Leon worries his lip and sighs. It’s maddening because you can tell he’s still not that convinced, but he does look a little conflicted. Yes. Yes, that’s what you need. You want to butter him so that he’s not so salty when you eventually start tailing him. 

“I still think you should stay here. You can – you can keep the Lieutenant company.” 

He’s grasping at straws. 

You both turn to Marvin, who, despite looking seconds away from door’s death still has the energy to roll his eyes. 

“Get out of here, the both of you.” 

And that settles it. You send Leon your smuggest smirk, teasingly crossing your arms when he rolls his eyes. 

It’s nice to have validation. Of course, even if Leon had continued to insist that no, you should stay here and sit pretty, backed up by Marvin’s words, you still would have followed him anyways. 

Because, again, what’s he gonna do? Arrest you because you didn’t follow his orders? You’re pretty sure that the law has like, nullified or something since the breakdown of total society within Raccoon City. As if you’d listen to an authority figure who probably knows better when you could literally _die out_ here. You’re nineteen! You’re a stupid teenager with occasional signs of intelligence. 

And this occasional sign of intelligence is telling you right now that if you don’t go with Leon then you’ll probably die a painful and traumatic death. There’ll be intestines and brain matter all across the marble floor and it’ll be horrible. 

Having no choice but to follow his higher up, Leon begrudgingly takes you to the locker room. Technically it’s the _ Safety Deposit Room,_ but same difference. 

The travel is nerve-wracking but safe – for the most part. It’s dark as shit and wherever Leon moves his flashlight you see a bloody smear across almost every object. The worst of it is on the walls, as if someone’s head was deliberately smashed against the wallpaper, cracking their skull before dragging it around like they were trying to recreate Blue Poles or something else equally as abstract. 

Your critical opinion is that the RPD is a grotesque piece of art. It sells clammy desperation, gut-curling dread and iron-scented horror like none other. 

Leon valiantly tries to cover the lying bodies from your line of sight, even physically moving you around so as to avoid them, but it’s nigh impossible. You commend him for his efforts. It’s touching, but concealing it won’t make you feel better or change the fact. 

At least the locker room is well lit and save for the dead body slumped over in the corner, it’s completely clear. 

Leon starts rummaging through the lockers; the noise makes you anxious but that’s an anxiety easy enough to work around. You’d like to think you have some experience in that now. 

“You need to be quieter,” you say, wandering slowly and peering into the clear, locked lockers. All of them are empty save for a few. “The noise attracts them.” 

Leon looks over his shoulders, raising a brow. He’s got a book in his hand that is definitely not a shoe. You think of book shoes. Hah, if you carve a hole then you could stick your feet through. You imagine doing it to your textbooks. Take them into the exams and claim it’s a fashion statement. “I thought it was smell?” 

You shrug, eyeing the shotgun and key card scanner. Maybe you could smash it? Leon could definitely use a bigger gun, something with more strength than the handgun he’s got. “Yeah, that too. But I don’t think it’s very strong for them. I was thinking it’s mainly sound, cause if you whistle from far away it gets their attention still.” 

“How do you know about the whistling?” He brings you a pair of boots and kneels by your feet, comparing your foot size. “No, these are too big. I found some socks though – they’re clean, but I don’t know who’s they were, sorry.” 

You take them with a grimace. A thankful grimace, but still, a grimace. It’s disgusting wearing someone else’s socks but you’re sure they won’t mind. You clean your feet off with hand wipes and stuff your toes into the thick, white socks. “I had to distract a few on my way here. Throwing things helps too, they can’t tell where it comes from but they hear the crash so they always go over to check it out.” 

While he turns back around to look for shoes, you instead turn your attention to the other lockers: 102 and 103. “How come you haven’t opened these yet? They’ve got stuff in them.” 

You point to the lockers and the keypad when he looks up to see what you’re talking about. “The keypad’s missing some keys.” 

You blink. “So? You can still press it down.” And you do exactly that, digging your finger into the squishy little stub where the original key should be sitting, hard and persistently until the 2 and 3 register. You hit enter, hear a buzz, enter the next sequence, and then walk around to retrieve the items when the second locker also buzzes in confirmation. 

“See!” You grin proudly and hand over a box of ammo and a knife. 

Leon takes them, looking slightly mystified. “Uh, there’s a few other lockers.” 

He lets you input the other locker sequences in, still wearing the same expression as he clips his new hip pouch to his belt and stores the box of shotgun shells for later. 

You get the impression he’d seen the missing keys, thought damn, and figured he’d maybe come across them while exploring the rest of the station. 

“You hadn’t thought of that, did you?” 

“Nope.” He hands you some boots. “I think these’ll fit.” 

You let him stew in mild embarrassment as you stuff your feet into the loose pair of boots. They’re not your size, but the thick socks make up for some of the wiggle room. You tie them up hard and double-knot them so they don’t suddenly fall off when you’re in a sticky situation that definitely requires shoes. 

“Thanks, they’re a tiny bit big but they’ll do,” you say, smiling gratefully. It feels really good to smile. 

Leon shrugs bashfully, rubbing his neck. “You’re welcome. Ready to go?” 

“Totally!” you cheer, optimistic and ready to meet another living being. You’ve never been so excited in your life, eagerly taking the combat knife Leon gives you and a flash grenade that you stuff into the pocket of your jeans. 

You don’t know how to use it, but you’ll set fire to that bridge when you get to it. The knife goes through your belt hoop, replacing the butcher’s knife you lost outside. Now _this_ you can use. 

“All okay?” Leon asks, watching bemused as you shuffle and hop around on the spot. Hey, you need to give all this new stuff a test run. S’not worth carrying it all if you’re just gonna trip all over your feet. 

But he’s got a little smile on his lips, so you count it as a win. 

You wave towards the door. “Lead the way.” 

** [--] **

You slap a hand to Leon’s mouth, rudely cutting him off. Not that you don’t want him to keep talking you eat off with that lovely voice of his, but… 

“Do you hear that?” You ask, straining your hearing. It sounds like buzzing and gnarling. You can’t quite tell where it’s coming from. 

His brow furrows. Turns his head like a dog listening for a squirrel. Your heart melts a little. 

(who knew you were one of those adrenaline-horny types?) 

“Yeah…” standing slightly in front of you, Leon draws his gun, moving further down the hall. You follow just as quietly. The rumbling noise gets louder and louder until you both turn the corner and it comes to a head. 

Outside the window, a helicopter flies down and crashes into the hallway up ahead. You flinch at the sound of screeching metal, bumping into an equally startled Leon. 

Both of you share a glance and take off towards the crash. The doors have torn from the main frame and crumple around the sides; the blades move slowly, dented and uneven. Miraculously, the pilot is still alive. He groans, and Leon surges forward. 

“I think we can get him out of this, here–“ he puts away his gun, climbing over the rubble trying to get closer. You watch with no small amount of worry. While Leon fusses over the injured pilot, you wonder what caused him to crash in the first place. 

Is he gone? Bitten? was there something else on the helicopter? But you don’t see anyone else. 

It worries you. And also, that really fucking sucks. You and Leon could’ve hightailed it out of here via helicopter. You’ve never been in one, and now you're only opportunity to escape this hell hole of a city like the action-flick protagonist you are is ruined. 

Leon slings the pilot’s arm over his shoulder. “Almost got you…” 

Standing out of the rubble as you are, you see the exact moment when the helicopter shifts – like in those slow-motion film scenes when there’s a terrible car crash, and the hero is watching their best friend or loved one inside. They always see the moment the fuel starts flowing out and onto the asphalt. 

You know what’s about to happen. 

“Leon!” you squeak, and without thinking you lunge forward and grab him by his vest, pulling them away with every bit of strength you have. 

The pilot lets out a garbled half-sob half-scream as his legs are dragged out from the front seat, and Leon lets out a hurried, “Shit!” You stumble back and fall on your ass underneath both men, which mind you, are fucking heavy. It’s like having a half-ton of car sitting on top of your chest. Or a cow. A tiny cow, but still a cow. 

You let out a low groan, greedily trying to suck in air with your abused lungs. 

All of this happens seconds before the helicopter blows up and catches aflame. It spews fiery debris that somehow manages to miss the three of you sprawled across the floor. The explosion wracks your hearing. 

“My liver,” you wheeze. “I think you fractured my liver.” 

“Shit, sorry.” Leon shuffles over, rolling off of you and pulling the pilot with him. They settle against the wall. Out of reach from the flames but close enough to feel the heat. It’s so fucking bright it illuminates the hallway and all of its bloody blemishes like acne in the morning light. You want to hope that the sound didn’t attract anything, but you know better. 

Pushing yourself to your knees, you help Leon pull the pilot onto his feet. He cries out, his legs giving way and nearly pulling both of you down with him. 

You and Leon share a look. He won’t be moving by himself anywhere. 

It takes longer than you’re comfortable with to lug him back to the waiting room. It’s well lit and the couches should keep him comfy for now. 

Once he’s settled, no longer groaning but breathing heavily, Leon pulls you aside. 

“You should be safe here.” He nudges your first-aid kit. “Think you can help him?” 

You purse your lips, running through the list of items in your head. It looks like he’s got a broken leg, which you can’t do much about other than set a splint. You could try break down some of the chair legs, see if it’ll help, or check out that art room. It’s probably a storage closet by now, so there’s gotta be something helpful there. But other than that, the only thing you can do that might be worth a damn is give him some painkillers. 

It’s not a lot, but... 

You’ll do it. This is the fourth person you’ve seen alive. Like hell are you just gonna let him die. 

You pat Leon’s arm confidently. “Go find Claire. It looked like the gate was locked. She might be able to climb over? Make sure you tell her that.” You nod, waiting for him to nod along with you. “Be safe.” 

Leon smiles, just a cute little quirk of the lip, but he hesitates. Darts a glance towards the pilot, then you. 

Any other time, you’d wait it out. Let this moment linger. This is supposed to be romantic, or homey, say something deep about friendship like in those flicks, yeah? That is, discounting how you literally just met the guy. But now isn’t the time and you’re worried Claire might be in trouble; the crash was way too loud and you’ve got a pilot to fix. 

“What is it?” you prompt, leaning in closer. He leans in automatically too. You’re jealous of how clean he looks. You wish you had some soap on you when you left the apartment, you could’ve taken a shower in the rain. 

He grabs your wrist. “If he, you know.” He throws a simultaneously concerned and wary glance towards the man. “I want you to run. Go back and find Officer Branagh.” 

You frown. “I can take care of myself.” 

His grip tightens warningly. “I know you want to, but leave it to me. Just run if he does, okay?” 

You’re a little offended. No, scrap that. You’re fully offended. He’s spent what, five hours in Raccoon City? You’ve been here for five days. You don’t like his attitude. 

(sure three were spent hiding like a hermit, but you were running plenty the first two, dodging dead people left and right. You're not _that_ helpless... okay, maybe you are a little helpless. But you can still do it if you have to! You know it's not a good idea to leave them roaming around freely, it'll just bite you back in the ass later on. All that running and dodging only works if you don't plan on revisiting, and you get the sense you'll be wandering the station for a little while longer.) 

In this new world, you do what you have to. Do what you have to survive. You've managed to take care of yourself without him just fine until this evening. 

You don’t tell him this though. Not yet, anyway. Now is not the time. But he'd best believe that you'll be having a talk later.

So, you straighten your back and lift up your chin. “Go find Claire. We’ll be fine.” You wave your hand. “Shoo.” 

He presses his lips, pausing like he’s still got something he wants to say. He doesn’t. Only gives you one last look and leaves. 

You turn to the pilot, hands on your hips. “Alright. It’s just you and me now. I promise you I can’t make this any worse than it already is.” 

The pilot – who seems to have regained some consciousness in the past several seconds or minutes – snorts, followed by a pained moan. 

You sigh. You’ve got your work cut out for you. 


	3. Chapter 3

The pilot must either be really good at praying or have some absurdly good luck.

You help him apply pressure to the nasty gash in his very _not_ broken, elevated leg.

You also force him to take some painkillers. You’d have given him a drink but they don’t supply that in first aid kits.

“Are you a junkie?” He asks, blearily. “I can’t.”

You blink, taken aback. “What? No! Just take the damn Tylenol!”

He looks at you very uncertain but gulps them dry anyway. You’re not sure if this is shock or something else. You don’t know which you’d prefer.

(you half-wonder if he was drinking on the job)

First things first, stop the bleeding. Whether a wound this large can be stopped, you really don’t know. You’re only trained enough to wait for an EMT to get here. And as there aren’t any EMTs anymore… you are currently the most qualified person in this room.

Ohhhh boy.

Okay. Take a deep breath. You’ve got this. First priority: stop the bleeding. You’re already applying pressure, so up that and find something else to soak up the still flowing blood. If it was artery then surely he’d be dead already.

You bite your lip, distraught. The only thing you can think of to use without wasting any bandages is… is your jacket. You fucking love this jacket. But the pilot is dying.

Making up your mind, you exhale sharply. He’ll buy you a new one when you get out of this. It’ll be an IOU. You’ll even get it down on paper.

You slip your arms out quickly, turning the jacket inside out. You cut off the bottom half of the body. The outside, although covered in blood, is waterproof. The inside material is relatively clean but you swab it with an antiseptic wipe and bundle it up, pressing around and between the pilots slacking fingers. He makes a painful sound but nothing else; his head lolls sideways. You pinch his nose.

“Wha?” He says, not anymore awake than before.

“If you sleep you die,” you say bluntly. “This is a team effort. You gotta help me out here.”

He breathes heavily, pupils looking a little glazed, but he musters a nod. Makes an effort to put as much pressure as he can on his leg. His forehead shines with copious amounts of sweat, strands of black hair wet and matted flat against his scalp; there are dark bruises along his jaw and nose and you think it might be broken but you can’t tell. You’ve never seen a broken nose.

He looks like shit, but not undead shit. He looks likes he’s about to hurl and die from blood loss, not from a disease or plague or whatever the hell infection is rampaging outside these walls.

It’s something. You can work with that. 

The bleeding doesn’t completely stop but it does slow. Enough for you to clean around the area instead. It looks disgusting. It reminds you of a car crash when the hood is all crumpled back on itself and you can see the bits inside. The cut isn’t wide, as though a chunk has been taken out, but it’s long and serrated, and you figure it must be very deep for it to have bled so much. You’re not a damn doctor. It’ll need stitches is your uneducated guess.

You prepare yourself. This is going to be unpleasant.

Check his pulse – which, it isn’t steady or strong like when you compare it your own, but it isn’t debilitatingly weak either. It should be good for now, and you try not to overthink it. You might be severely under-qualified, but he doesn’t have anyone else _but_ you. You’re the only thing standing between him and death.

You take a deep breath and fish for the needle and thread.

The door opens when you’re halfway down the pilot’s calf.

The surgical scissors are up in the air before you even think about it, extra pointy ends pointing away. They drip with blood. It’s not exactly the most dignified or even protective stance, but there must be something fierce and frazzled on your face because Leon takes a startled step back.

“Oh thank god,” you breathe, deflating. And then you perk up again, turning back to suture the wound closed. No time for dilly-dallying! “Where’s Claire?”

You don’t hear her footsteps alongside Leon’s. Unless she’s like, super fucking quiet. But you don’t hear her talking or breathing either so she mustn’t be there. You squint, eyes focused on the task at hand.

The stitches are coming along nicely, as much as they can under your unskilled hands anyway. Your technique is a combination influenced by poor attempts at embroidery and watching medical dramas at 10pm when you should really be sleeping. But his leg is coming back together so you must be doing something right.

The pilot hums, still dazed and sleepy-like. You hope it’s just the painkillers. You don’t have the energy or education to deal with more.

“I was too late,” Leon says, coming to kneel beside you. You don’t turn to him, just silently point at your torn-up jacket and make a gesture. “The noise attracted more of them. We didn’t have any more time.”

He seems to understand you somewhat vaguely because he picks up the bundle and hovers uncertainly around the gash.

“Pat it gently.”

He does, following the trail of sutures you leave behind. You ended up cutting the wrinkled, flappy bits of skin that’d been hanging on by sheer force of will. They were messing up your sewing. If this was a good move has yet to be seen.

“Did you tell her to climb the fence?”

“Couldn’t. It had barbed wires at the top.”

You try very hard not to shrug. It’ll mess up your hand. “Better than getting eaten up by those things.”

Leon sighs. He sounds so tired. It makes you feel a little guilty for still feeling annoyed at him about earlier. But only a little.

“I found something.”

You frown. “What is it?”

“A crank.”

You really want to look at him. But no, you must persevere. The pilot – and you really need to get his name – will die if you look away. Maybe not die, but you don’t think he’ll appreciate you taking your eyes off of him while you repair his leg like an annoying hole in a pair of socks.

“A crank?” you repeat, bemused. “Why did you take a crank? What do you even need a crank for? And where’d you even find it?”

He holds the scissors when you give it to him. “East office. I don’t know why; it was just sitting on the desk. And it’s for the bathroom in this west wing. One of the pipes is blown and it’s steaming gas.”

You immediately perk up. “A bathroom?”

He laughs. “Yeah, a bathroom. If I fix it, you can, you know…”

Leg done. Last stitch in. You wrap it in bandaging for added measure. This time, you look up to the ceiling with a reverent expression. Finally, you can take a sorely needed bathroom break.

You turn to Leon. “That is the best news I have had heard since literally ever.”

He shakes his head, lips quirked. “Figures.”

The pilot interrupts you both with a grumpy exhale. “Are you done flirting? M’leg still hurts.”

You send him a flat look. Not that he can see it, considering his eyes are closed. You wonder how he’s still awake, honestly. It’s not like you had anesthesia. “I’m not giving you any more painkillers. I already gave you above dosage, so suck it!”

Maybe you’re being a little mean, but you really don’t know if it’s safe, especially with all the blood loss and shit. You don’t want to risk it any more than you already have.

(and also, you’re a little mad. It’s the end of the world; you should be allowed to flirt a little. You already fixed his damned leg.)

Finding some strength from… somewhere, the pilot lifts up his head, glaring at you unhappily. You are as intimidated as you would be by a floppy-eared rabbit. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

You sigh noisily. “I’m not!”

The pilot grumbles. He must be really out of it. Anyone in their right and sober mind would be pissed mad at you right now. You literally just performed surgery on his leg. That’s not right! You’re a history student, not a medical one!

“Is he going to be alright?” Leon asks, leaning towards you. You eye him a little. He doesn’t look particularly bothered by the pilot’s comment. Unless… you missed him blushing or some cute shit because you were too busy dealing with the pilot. Damn.

No! brain, shut up. There are more important things right now. You can lament over lost opportunities at a later time.

You shrug hesitantly. You won’t lie. You lean in to whisper though. If it were you, you wouldn’t want your faux-doctor and some random guy to be talking about your prospective future in front of you. “Maybe?” you say, and then really think about. “Yeah,” you amend, nodding with conviction. “He didn’t break anything, it’s just… a lot of lost blood. But I dunno if he can walk on it.”

Looking at the guy, Leon seems to contemplate something.

With some mild bemusement, you watch as he putters around, doing something with the cushions behind the desk. He even manages to move the definitely heavy safe off to the side.

“Help me pick him up.”

It takes considerably less time to move the pilot behind the desk than it did getting him to this room.

“I feel like a ragdoll,” the pilot says, almost pouting. You say almost because you refuse to believe a thirty-year-old man is capable of _pouting_. He looks highly put out. Now _that_ must be the painkillers.

“Sorry bud,” Leon pats his back gently, crouching by his side. “We’ll leave you here for now. Take this–“ Leon hands him another gun he must have found recently, and some ammo. “Only use it if you have to. You’re safe up here for now, but you don’t want to attract any of the dead this way.”

The pilot snorts. “Thanks man.” And then his whole body sort of just… tilts a little and starts to doze.

You still haven’t gotten his name. You’ll get it later. It really is probably best that you leave him here, he won’t be much help finding that last statue piece.

After retrieving and cleaning your kit, you slip on your sad excuse of a jacket – what remains of it anyways. You hope you don’t look too bad. The bottom only comes up to mid-waist now. It’s not terrible, exactly, but it’s not how you envisioned yourself wearing it. You have the sleeves still, so that’s something.

The reason you don’t feel too embarrassed about your appearance is because Leon isn’t looking so hot either. You can suffer together.

“You think he’ll be safe?” you ask him in the main hall. “I feel bad for leaving him.”

Despite the shit you’d been mentally giving the man and the situation you found yourself in, you’d do it again. Of course you’d help him. How could you not? It just majorly sucks is all. Now you’re just super anxious that something terrible will happen while you’re gone. You’ve only known him for like, ten minutes, but you really don’t want him to die.

“He should be for now,” Leon assures you. “I’ve cleared out most of the rooms that I’ve gone through, and boarded up the broken windows.”

“Yeah…” you still don’t feel right, but there’s no alternative.

“Now.” He shows you the crank. “The bathroom.”

[--]

You squeak, stumbling back as the dead woman lunges out from the locker and grabs onto Leon.

“Shit!”

Thinking fast, you grab the nearest object – a ridiculously ugly vase, what’s it doing in the bathroom? – and throw it at her. Or them, really. It breaks on impact. Huh, must’ve been a cheap vase.

“Agh!” Leon coughs out a mouthful of dirt.

You wince. “Oops.”

It distracts the lady though, so it works out in the end.

The crank goes in, and the steam goes off.

You walk in eagerly, and–

It’s a disappointment. Just like everything in your life has been so far.

Leon makes a gesture. “You don’t think you could–?”

You look at him unamused. “No.”

He puts his hands on his hips, looking up. “Yeah, thought so.”

\--

\--

“What’s that?” You ask Leon, waving to the device he’s holding. It has a ring of dull, elevated circular bumps, followed by printed arrows in a counter-clockwise direction. Below is a keypad of eight.

“It’s a portable safe.”

“Oh. What’s in it?”

Leon shrugs. “Let’s find out.”

When he finally puts in the correct sequence, the safe lets out a cute jingle, the nodes flashing green.

When you see what it’s inside, your face falls flat. “You’re joking.”

Leon pulls out a keypad key. It has a ‘2’ printed on it.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “This is for the–“

“Yes.”

He looks as perplexed as you feel. You wonder who did this and what they were doing with their life.

“And you were really going to work with these people,” you mumble, turning away.

He nods and sighs. Puts the key back into the safe and slams it into the locker it came from.

“We won’t be needing that.”

“Nope.”

[--]

While you roll up some red herbs that’d been decorating the corner, Leon hunches over the computer outside the armoury.

“Dongle…” he mutters, noting something down on a paper pad.

You look over at him from over your work. “Are we really going to look for a dongle?” In this police station? Yeah, good luck.

He peers at you over his shoulder. It takes a lot of effort to not let your eyes drift down to his ass. “There should be some more ammo inside. It’ll be useful.”

“I suppose,” you say.

In the little side office – must be the captains or Chief’s, you think – you find a packet of gum (watermelon flavoured), some more ammo in the desk drawer which you stuff into your backpack, and a random battery that you also take just in case you find a radio. Behind the desk, sitting on a stack of files and pamphlets is a note. It gives you the combination to a safe relocated to the West Office.

You store that for later. Searching the rest of the S.T.A.R.S office lands you with a gun. It has a full clip of ammo.

Holding it very gently, you bring it to Leon. He’s typing something on the keyboard. Is he trying to hack it? Good on him. You approve.

“Hey, look what I found.”

He turns and blinks. “Where did you find that?” he leans around you, scrutinising the office as if another will magically appear.

You shrug. “In one of the drawers.”

He looks confused. “But most of them have locks?”

This time you turn away, feeling sheepish. “Yeah...”

It’s silent for a moment. You enjoy his mystified expression.

“Think you can open this?” He points to the armoury door.

You give him a look. “It’s electronic, Leon. You’ve been fiddling this thing for the past five minutes. If you couldn’t get open, then neither can I.”

He shrugs easily. “Worth a try.” Then he nods to the gun you’re still holding. “Keep that. It’s not regulation, but truth be told, I don’t think it matters at this point. It’s not safe that you only have a knife.”

You’re not so sure. “I won’t be shooting it though... I think I’m more likely to blow my wrist off if I try.”

“Better shoot yourself than getting eaten, right?”

“I mean, yeah – wait, no...” If you lose any body part to this bad idea, you’re blaming him. You would rather not lose a limb if you can help it.

“If something happens – which it won’t, not since I’m here – I'll take full responsibility. I promise.”

Letting him help you strap a holster that you find on another desk to your waist – your fashion senses are crying for help; being practical is not conducive to looking good – you mutter, “You’re so sure about that. A little full of yourself, don’t you think?”

Leon grins, blue light from the desktop glancing along his face. “Have I led you wrong otherwise?”

You are not impressed.

(liar)

“We saw a helicopter explode three feet away from us. Y’know, I don’t think that would’ve happened if you hadn’t taken us there.” You point out. “I could have lived my whole life without that experience. It was really traumatic and I don’t think I'll recover, ever.”

“What?” His shoulders shake as he laughs. Unsurprisingly, it’s still as lovely as before and makes your stomach do funny things. Like indigestion, but pleasant. “I didn’t tell it to crash. It would’ve done that anyway. We just happened to have good timing.”

“I don’t think you understand the concept of good timing. There was nothing good about that at all.”

He shrugs, still smiling. He’s finished fixing up the holster to your belt. You don’t think he’s noticed, but his hands are still resting along either side of your hips. Nothing incriminating, but you think about it.

“We saved that pilot, didn’t we?”

“But at what cost? You broke my rib.”

“Thought I fractured your liver, wasn’t that what you said?”

“Something along those lines…”

He clasps your shoulders, gently rubbing them in circles with his thumb. You flush, just a smidgen. “You’ll be fine. Hopefully you won’t even need to use it. And if worse comes to worst and you really can’t? just throw everything you can reach.”

You laugh. You’ve already done that (your knife, cough cough) and it didn’t work.

“I’m serious.” Why’s he laughing too then, huh?

Looking down, laughter dying, you wring your fingers. “I’m not totally helpless, you know. I meant it earlier. I can take care of myself.” 

He removes his hands and rubs his neck. When he meets your eyes again, it’s sheepish. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just – it’s not _right_.” He starts to get frustrated when all you do is stare at him blankly and exhales noisily. ”I mean, you shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff. Dead people? Killing and running away from dead people? None of this is sane. You should be, I don’t know, painting? Going to class? Having a night out with friends. Not _this_.” He makes a wide gesture that encompasses the room and probably the entirety of Racoon City.

Now you just roll your eyes. Objectively, you can see his reasoning. It makes sense, now that he’s explained better. This isn’t a situation anyone should have to experience, neither you or him. People are literally coming back alive, _undead_. This only ever happens in fiction.

But you still feel compelled to argue. It’s the principle of it. You’re trying to get past your cowardly ways.

“S’not like I really have a choice. I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”

You cross your arms, cocking a hip.

Leon crosses his arms and doesn’t cock a hip. “But do you want to do it?”

You look away. It’s not something you’d lie about. “I mean, not really, no…”

He sighs. “That’s my point. If you can avoid it, if you can run – do it. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You flush properly this time. Agh. Your resolve is weakening. He just wants you to be okay, and you’re being difficult about it. Maybe you’re both right. There’s nothing inherently wrong with not being able to look out for yourself, but… 

You’re being stupid. Again. There’s proving that you’re not a total deadweight, which isn’t bad, and then there’s being an idiot and throwing yourself into danger – doing stuff you don’t even want to do, risky stuff too – just to make a point.

You don’t want to kill people anymore. They’re dead now, but you still did it. Killed them a second time. It’s not something to be proud of and not something you want to do ever again.

You clear your throat, tossing your head back. Your earrings are heavy on your lobes and the weight is comforting. Reminds you of better times. “Right, well.” You lean forward abruptly, pointing a finger so close to his nose that your skin almost touches his. His eyes fly downwards, trying to follow it. It’s cute. “You so much as get a papercut, I wanna hear about it. Got me? I’m taking this medic gig seriously. You are _so_ not dying on me.”

He grabs your hand and gives you a thumbs up. “Got it. No dying. Wasn’t planning on it, but I’ll make extra sure not to.”

“Haaaah, you’re so funny.” And then you squint. “Painting, really? that’s what you think I do?”

Leon tilts his head considering. “Well, what _do_ you do then?”

“History!” you say proudly, stepping back away from those soft emotions. “I was gonna be a history teacher. The kids’ll love me.”

He blinks, raising his eyebrows. He picks his stuff up from the desk and starts leaving towards the door. “You? A teacher?”

You thwack his arm, following. Guess you guys are done here now. The room is cleared, just the armoury room and its stupid dongle left for later.

“You sound so incredulous. What, you don’t think I can?”

“I think you’d be a terrible one.”

Your mouth drops open. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “Excuse me?”

“If I had you as my history teacher,” and then he looks you up and down, scanning you rather, uh, _intently_. You clap your mouth closed. He meets your eyes, and for the first time tonight gives you a charming little smirk. “I’d never get any work done. I’d be too distracted.”

Oh, my god. You can’t believe he just said that. He literally just said that. What do you do? What do you even say?

“Nghh.”

Nice going, idiot. Real smooth.

Your face is hot. Is this what most girls feel like? Is this what _guys_ feel like when you lay it on? Jesus. You want both to ascend to heaven and have the ground eat you whole. No in-between.

Unbelievable! And you’ve been trying to withhold from flirting since you met him!

Humbled by this embarrassing and flattering experience, you wave him on. “I think it’s time we leave, don’t you? Find that medallion and all, get outta here, so…”

He has the audacity to laugh at you.

Scrunching your nose, you toss him a wary look and grab the knob. As soon as you try to step out into the hallway Leon surges ahead of you roughly pulls you back inside. You throw him an angry glare, rubbing your shoulder. “What was that f–“

Somewhere outside a demon _screeches_. The sound sends terror shooting through your veins, and breathing suddenly gets a tad bit more difficult.

He slams the door, holding the handle shut. The expression on his face is one of severe constipation.

“What… what was that?” you prod, poking him when his face screws up even more. You don’t need to have years of friendship with him to know what that face means. It means: this is _sooooo_ not good. “_Leon_.”

He clenches his jaw. Looks at you. “Stay here.”

Your eyes widen.

“What do you–“ you hiss, pulling him away from the door when he tries to twist it open again. “Don’t go out there! You’ll _die_. Did you hear that thing? I think my kidneys just shriveled in on themselves!”

“And if I stay here and do nothing, we’ll _both _die.”

You stare, stricken. “So, what. You’re just gonna go out there and fight it?”

He rolls his shoulder, warming up his muscles. Getting ready. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Do you even know what it is or how to kill it?” you ask weakly, stalling for time, for anything. Maybe for the damned thing to solve your problem and kill itself.

(it screeches, alive and no less chilling)

He pulls out a note. It’s stained with coagulated blood.

You read it, heart dropping. If it’s right outside...

“What if you just open the door a little and like, peek out?”

He considers it. “You should hide behind something. Just in case.”

Not feeling very good about this, you pat his arm for good luck, give him a worried thumbs up and crouch behind the Captain’s desk. You have nothing to contribute and hand over whatever reigns you thought you held.

Unlike you, Leon really _is _competent at these things.

From the door, he gives you an apprehensive expression (lips pressed tightly, eyes wide) before piercing the blue-painted wood with a resolute glare. He takes a deep breath – your nerves skyrocket – positions his gun, and slowly, very quietly, turns the knob. Somehow, you’ve both been blessed with oiled hinges as it doesn’t make so much as a squeak.

Another screech comes through, louder now that the room is open, but it doesn’t immediately assault your new friend.

It’s blind, you recall from the note.

You can’t see how Leon is aiming, his arm and body is in the way and so is the door, but you see when his body stills. You hold your breath.

The suspenseful quiet that lurks in the air for some very long seconds abruptly shatters.

Leon shoots, the quick succession of the gunshots rushes your ears, and the demonic shrieking has _tone _to it. It sounds like Satan incarnate.

Miraculously, it stops after another round of shots.

You peek from between your fingers, not remembering when you covered your face.

“Is it dead?”

“I – I’m not sure.” Leon cracks open the door a little more, leaning out.

“Well, what’s it doing?”

“It’s – shit!” On reflex, he shoots it twice more, reloads, and shoots it another five times. You duck down and clap your hands to your ears, trying to ignore the inhumane noises coming from the hallway. It smells like sweat and boots down here.

Finally, after a minute, it’s completely silent.

“It’s dead now. I think.”

You climb up to your knees, crawling around the desk. You feel safer closer to the floor. “You think?”

“Yeah. Come here?”

You do. Leaning out of the doorway, you find Leon stabbing a knife through its exposed brain. The – _licker_, as the note had said, looks like nothing you’ve ever seen. It is comical in proportion and utterly terrifying in everything else. You have never felt so unsettled in your life before, but here you are, nausea rolling around in your stomach.

It was human once, you think. This could be someone you know. If you were any less lucky than you are, it could have even been you.

“How did this happen?” you whisper, distraught.

Leon shakes his head. “I don’t know, but I want to find out.”

“Of course,” you say faintly. Of course. He’s a cop. It’s only natural that he wants to get to the bottom of this. And, shit – you’ll be right beside him.

He stands up and grabs your elbow, tugging you from the monster. “Come on, this way.”

Eventually, you both circle back around to the library and into the main hall.

“I think I just lost ten years of my life,” you say, sitting down for a sorely needed break. You crack your knuckles and roll your shoulders, followed by stretching your arms and back. You check your watch. It’s late. Somehow, almost two hours have passed since you got here. Where did all that time go?

That’s what fear does to you. Just eats up all the damn time.

Marvin is passed out on the couch, twitching every now and so, but nothing else.

“He’s not doing so great,” Leon says after checking him. “I don’t how we’re going to get him to a hospital.”

You look over your shoulder. “Hospital?”

“Well, yeah. He needs help.”

“Leon,” you start, and trail off.

He looks up from counting his ammo now. “What?”

You don’t know how to say this gently. “There is no hospital. It’s – it’s gone.”

His eyes dart around before they come back to you, clearly searching for something to say. “What do you mean it’s _gone?_”

You bite your lip. “You know it’s not just the station, right? It’s the entire city, not just like, a section. Last I heard… last I heard, the hospital was overrun. It was the first quarantine they managed.”

He’s so shocked that it makes you feel bad. “I thought you were joking,” he mutters, appearing lost. He drops his ammo and starts to pace in front of you. You wonder what he’s thinking. Probably how much his life sucks right about now.

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s where everyone went first. And then when they stopped taking people in, we tried to get off by the main roads, and it was just. Blocked. They blocked us in. Said they wanted to keep the infection from spreading. The clean zones didn’t last.”

They went wild. Couldn’t keep it contained, so they’d started killing everyone. For safety measures, you suppose. It’s what they did around this end, anyway.

You pull your legs to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. You clasp your hands atop your knees and look at them idly. “That was the second day. I hid in an apartment. Saw the riots in the street from the window. I don’t know where all the fires came from, but it’s been going for a while now. The rain hasn’t put it out yet.”

Leon rubs a hand down his face. “_Jesus_.”

“We can’t save him.” You nod towards Marvin. “Once you’re bit, that’s it. Game over.”

He doesn’t say anything. He still had hope, you realise. Still thought he could save all of you. He’d only come in today, only been here a few hours. Wouldn’t have seen much, just the front steps of the RPD.

You hate thinking about the zoo. Can animals get infected? Or your college campus. You were part of the Royal History Society. They’ve got a picture of you on the fucking pamphlet. You’re gonna miss your leader.

“Let’s check the pilot,” Leon suddenly says, turning on his heel.

And that’s that. Yeah. It really is a total downer. You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all.

**[--]**

You snap your fingers. “Hell_ooo_?”

The pilot lifts his head. He’s not looking so good. You the back of your palm against his forehead, checking his temperature. It’s hot. Shit. You pull out a proper thermometer from your kit and shove it in his mouth.

He makes an irritated noise.

When it beeps, you pull it out much to his obvious relief.

“How is it?” Leon asks.

You grimace. “Hundred and three. That’s like, middle right? I don’t think it’ll kill him…”

The pilot grumbles. “Feels like it.”

“You have any trouble why we were gone?”

“I need to take a fucking piss.”

You sigh noisily but amused. “Join the club.”

He squints at you. “Pass me a bottle.”

You make a disgusted face. Ew.

“Have to do what you have to do, kid.”

Leon ends up finding one so you leave the room. You don’t wanna hear this guy take a leak when you yourself still has to go! You’re just gonna have to keep it in for who knows how long. Can’t exactly take a break and hide in a bush outside. Now that’s embarrassing.

And – no. Your eyes widen in horror at the thought. What if you get caught? By a zombie no less?! You’ll be vulnerable with your pants around your ankles, just trying to take an innocent pee break. They’ll get you because you’ll be that idiot that hides behind a tree to take a whiz!

Your rep would be _ruined_. It doesn’t matter if no one is alive to see its downfall – _you_ would. You’d know.

Yeah, no. Not happening.

You thump the door after a minute. “You done?”

“Come on.” Leon opens it for you, moving aside to let you in.

“Wish I was a guy,” you mumble. The freedom to pee whenever, just whip it out and go at it. Gosh. Your vagina and the requirement to sit down is being really inconvenient right now.

“I don’t,” Leon mutters back, grinning when you give him a scandalised look. Oh no, not this again.

“Hey, doctor!” the pilot calls, flapping his hand in the air. You cross over and peek around the desk, eyes squeezed shut. When you open them slowly, he’s giving you a funny look. “Y’all aright there?”

You ignore it. “How’d you crash the helicopter.” It’s a not question, but a demand. Seeing as he appears to be fine for the moment, you think he can take it. You can’t give any more medicine, and you did leave him some water. You don’t know how many times you need to change his dressing, but decide not to so as to conserve for later.

“Pushy.” He struggles to sit up and you and Leon immediately come to his aid, slinging his arms around your shoulders. With a grunt, he makes it, breathing heavily. You pat his face softly with a hand wipe because you feel bad. It makes his appearance slightly better. “Got shot. Was heading to St Michael when something clipped the propellers.”

“Someone shot you down?” Leon asks, incredulously.

“The Clock Tower?” you ask, incredulously. “It’s right next to the hospital. Why there?”

“I don’t fucking know, man.” The pilot shakes head, scratching his jaw. He’s got a five o’clock coming in, mottled with ugly bruising. He kind of reminds you of your high school maths teacher. Fun times. “It was working fine one minute and the next metalwork is screaming in my damn ear. Got the window too. Couldn’t see jack shit.”

He faces the ceiling, guilt flickering across his face. His faint crow-feet is more pronounced when he frowns. “I got a call in. Some of the channels are still working, heard there was a group waiting for evac on one of the roofing’s.”

“They’re still evacuating?” you whisper, almost speechless.

“They never stopped.” The pilot takes a deep sip of water. “Not as many, last I checked. It’s a losing battle.” He clenches his fists on his thigh, hunching over. “The city’s almost gone.”

You sit back, gut clenching. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re friends are as smart as you know they are, they headed elsewhere. The RPD is a dead end, literally, but apparently there are others out there. Still surviving. They could be one of them.

You deflate like an empty crocodile pool blow-up. Finding Marvin, Leon and Claire was one thing – but the possibility that your friends are still alive? Even after all this? After three days of no contact? A tension in your back you hadn’t even realised was there completely dissipates.

You surge forward, grabbing the pilot’s elbow. Personal space has thrown itself out the window. It’s too overwhelmed by all this good news.

“We’re getting out of here,” you say firmly, once he meets your eyes. You steamroll over the doubt lingering on his face with your own stubborn conviction. “Bum leg or no, I’m going to carry you out of this damned station and this damned city. We are _so_ not going to die down here.”

“That’s real admirable, kid. Delusional, but admirable.”

You scowl. “Shut up. Look at me. Do you see this face? It’s too pretty to kick the bucket. I refuse.” You slap Leon on the arm. “Tell him, Leon.”

“We have another way out,” He affirms, bringing up a map of the police station. It’s the first floor. He points to where the goddess statue should be about. “Here. We’ve almost finished the key to the statue, we’re just looking for one more medallion and it should open up to a tunnel leading out.”

“What is this, Scooby Doo?” The pilot shakes his head. “That’s crazy. Secret tunnels my ass… come back when you find it. _If_ you find it.”

He irritates you. He won’t even listen, doesn’t even try. And sure, okay, you get it. It really does sound crazy, like you’re both chasing a dead end here. But you’ve seen the layers of the statue peel away after putting in the embossed medals. It’s almost unreal. There’s an actual honest to god chance that you could get out of here alive.

Just gonna have to drag him across the floor when it’s time, then. If you can carry five bags of groceries in one trip, then surely you can take a full-grown man by his good ankle and lug him out of this room.

“We never got your name,” Leon says, standing up. He offers you a gloved hand, which you take, and easily pulls you to your feet.

The pilot leans back, getting as comfortable as he can in his position. He gives you both a short glance. “Tracy Phillips.”

Leon nods. “Kennedy. Leon Kennedy.”

“Bond,” you mutter, moving away. You give the newly named Tracy Philips a fleeting squint. “James Bond.”

Leon pokes your side for that, which does nothing because you’re a badass bitch that ain’t ticklish, and Phillips just gives you a semi-amused glance.

“Good luck, kid.”

The door to the main hall shuts behind you both.

“He’s annoying,” you grumble. “Did you hear my speech? It was so good.”

“I was inspired.”

You wave a flippant hand. “You don’t count.”

He huffs through his nose but smiles nonetheless. “Thanks.”

“Where to next?”

He pulls up the map, bringing out a pen to check off the places you’ve visited. There’s a bunch of messy notes scrawled around each room, some indicating items of interest, pockets of danger, broken and boarded up windows, and areas that are totally cleared out. Smart. Makes backtracking a hell of a lot easier.

“I was thinking it might be in one of the storage rooms. There’s the Art Room–“ he points to a spot just beyond where the pilot is sitting in now. You make a face. You can’t go back in there, you’ll look stupid. “and the West Storage, which is the floor above.”

“Up,” you say immediately.

“You sure?”

“Uhuh.”

He folds it and sticks back in his pocket. “Let’s get going then.”

**[--]**

“–_up in a steel pen, and set some C4. All i gotta do is detonate it and it's ‘sayonara suckers!’ But it's no fun if it's over too soon, so maybe I'll give that one a raving loon_–“ You cut yourself off, feeling ridiculous. “The hell is this guy? I’m so confused.”

“Someone not right, that’s for sure,” Leon says, doing… something to the recently made wall of explosives. His shoulders sag, and he pulls away. “We have to find a detonator. It won’t blow by itself, and the last medallion is inside.”

You peer at him dubiously. “Would that be a common thing to just be lying around here somewhere?”

He puts his hands on his hip. “That’s the thing...”

“Ahh.”

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, considering. “There’s room I haven’t explored yet. The door was chained shut, but now that I have some bolt cutters…”

“I’m pretty sure it’s chained shut for a reason?”

He rubs his jaw. “We don’t have any other options.”

You exhale. “Let’s just see it then.”

“Unless you’d like to stay here and wait–?”

You hastily cut him off, grabbing his elbow and dragging him to the door that leads to the upper floor of the library. “No, no, I’m good. I’ll come with.”

He grins widely, teeth glinting at you like a Colgate ad. If police work doesn’t work out for him after this, the modeling industry will definitely adopt him. “If you’re sure.”

You manually close his jaw, hiding the bottom half of his face with your hand. Don’t worry, it’s clean. You’ve cleaned them with so many wipes you could dish it out in the operating theatre. You are cleaner than a bottle of 99.99 percent antibacterial hand-gel. “Stop that, you look like you’re about to eat me.”

When his mouth opens beneath your fingers, you give him a Look. “Don’t.”

He shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself. Ass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter. Originally had about 8000 words, but I've roughly split that in two because the pacing felt weird, like too much crap crammed into one. It's still a bit ehhh, but better than before so I'll deal. Next chap will come a lot sooner than my usual weekly, considering it's written up. And then back to weekly if I can, but we'll see.
> 
> (I think it’s edited fully?)

You find the detonator.

First floor, through the second door in the Operations Room. Why it’s there, you don’t know. You don’t think you want to know. Policemen are weird. You eye Leon suspiciously when his back is turned. Is it contagious? Has he caught it? He was going to work here, after all. It’s only a matter of time until he reveals if he’s also got some weird habits and grand schemes set on simmer. 

“–and it needs a battery. Of course.” He hands the device over, allowing you to see the very clear and very empty indentation. You study it for a bit. The shape is almost familiar…

Oh!

You rummage through your backpack, digging through all the crap until – _there_. You present the battery you’d taken from the Captain’s office. He slides it in and – perfect. It fills you with accomplishment.

“I found it upstairs,” you shrug when he gives you a questioning look. “Thought I might find a radio or something.”

“You know how to use one like that?”

“Uh, well, no. Figured I’d give it a try anyway. But come on!” you grab his arm and haul ass to the third floor. “Let’s blast this thing! I wanna get out of here already.”

Indeed, as soon as you get to the Storage Room, the jitters start to come back. Good jitters this time. You shiver and snuggle into what’s left of your rain jacket. You can’t wait to leave – you can almost taste the flavour of freedom and relief on your tongue. Like watermelon freshness.

Wait. That’s just gum. Your mouth feels infinitely better when you pop in another stick, chewing vigorously. You cram the foil in your pocket because hey, it might be the apocalypse but that doesn’t give you a free pass to litter.

After a few minutes, Leon pulls back from his fiddling, pushing himself off the floor and patting the dust off his knees.

“Here, let’s just–“ he moves you both behind the large pillared structure smack dab in the middle of the room. “Ready?”

He waves a small remote.

You nod, wide-eyed, hands hovering in the air. You’re not sure how loud this’ll be, but you’re expecting the worst.

He flicks the switch.

You wait and stare at each other. Nothing happens. “Is it gonna–?”

The blast is thundering. It pulses in your head like the heavy bass at a rave, except nowhere near as fun. Instinctively you flinch, stumbling against Leon; he curls an around your back, bringing you in, his other bent over both your heads to shield from the reign of disturbed dust that descends over you both.

The ground shakes and metal screams as it’s torn apart. It only takes a few seconds.

Enough seconds for everything to go straight to hell.

Something screeches from far off. Your stomach drops. You wouldn’t forget a sound like that.

“_Leon_–“

“I know.”

It’s a bit of a blur, blinded by terror as you are, feeling like a frightened and offended cat as all of your hairs stand on end. Your teeth clatter. Your gum falls out of your mouth.

He forces you down into a crouch, clutching your biceps tightly. He brings his mouth against your ear. “Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Just stay here alright?” and then he’s off, sprinting away and leaving you in a tightly curled up ball against the wall.

You’re going to die. You are going to die. Life is flashing before your eyes. The shrieks get louder, and – _there!_

You clench your eyelids tightly and plug your ears. Maybe if you can’t hear it, it can’t hear you. It sounds like it’s coming at you from every angle, the scratchy-crawling it makes intimidating your senses. You’re cornered; trapped. You smell wet rot and old blood. You hold your breath.

A gunshot goes off. Another – two more – five more. The damn thing refuses to die.

A sticky splatter of _I’m-literally-going-to-kill-myself-if-it-touches-me_ splats against your temple and dribbles down your cheek. It’s sticky and disgustingly warm. You jump and bite your tongue, tempering the startled cry that tries to tear its way out of your throat.

You move. Not a lot, barely an eighth of an inch; only a smidgen. It’s instinctual, a reflex to hide more, protect better. It’s the wrong move.

The following shriek pierces your soul and tries to send you straight to the astral plane.

Maybe it’s courage, or curiosity, or just plain idiocy and self-punishment, but your eyelids try to fight off the dread and flutter open despite your mind’s desperate demands not to. Leon grunts somewhere far behind you, still caught trying to get the medallion. That’s the last thing on your mind.

You’d swallow if you could, but you’re afraid it’d be too loud.

There’s a licker right in front of you, crawling around the floor like a literal goddamned demon that just climbed itself out of the deepest pits of the underworld, _sniffing_.

Sniffing for _you_.

Your life goes from moderately bad to extreme levels of doomed.

Like the licker from before, this one is made of pure, bulging muscle. Similarly forced to travel on its hands and legs, fingers and toes distended into sharpened claws made of nail, bone, and bulging lumps of mutated flesh. Its pink, membranous skin is slickly coated in gore.

Well, you had a good run. Even met a cute guy before you died. You’d have a hard-pressed time trying to concoct anything worse than this. Fucking sayonara and all.

As your eyelids flutter shut again, ready to lay belly up and give in to defeat, you catch glimpse of a small piece of sharp debris next to your foot. It’s about the size of your fist.

You don’t think. You just do.

Very slowly you unclench your fists from by your ear and reach out. The licker is unaware of your scheme. With trembling fingers, you grasp the chunk in both palms, allowing the rough, papery-dust edges of plaster and cement to matte your skin.

You lift it up. One chance. One second. The licker tilts its head, haemorrhaged brain exposed to the open air. You try not to think and jinx yourself.

Three, _two_–

You lunge forward, driving the debris down into its head with desperate ferocity. Knees slam painfully against the floor and your elbows crash into one of its elongated arms, pinning it down with your upper body. It spits a slimy cocktail of blood and saliva at your face, which you just barely dodge. Thick clumps of your hair are plastered to your scalp.

It struggles to no effect. Your fingers are knuckle deep into its brain.

The licker lets out a dying shriek right next to your ear, gifting you with permanent hearing damage and a putrid waft of its last meal, and finally falls limp. Its claws twitch until death completely takes its toll.

At last, the air is silent. The dust has settled.

**\--**

**\--**

Leon comes back to find you spewing the remainder of your stomach’s contents across the floor.

Very gently, he pulls the hair out of your face and rubs soothing circles across your back. Ah, nothing beats the touch of proper human contact after a run-in with the fucking devil. And when you’re done, he pulls you up to your feet, leans you against his side and all but drags you back to the main hall where he sits you gently down on the floor.

You feel too sickly to speak. Your throat is hoarse, your mouth tastes vile and everything is throbbing. But just for him, you muster a shaky, grateful smile. He returns it, looking as awful as you probably do. The gore and dust aren’t doing him any favours.

You need to clean yourself up. You’re covered in things you’d rather not be covered in. Pulling out some wipes and tissues, you clean your hands first, picking as much as you can from underneath your nails. You tiredly flick away a piece of brain matter.

What has your life come to?

Face next. You were smart enough to keep your mouth closed and eyes shut tight, but every other inch feels like it’s contaminated. Keeping away from those parts, you wipe away as much biological waste and fluids as you can. Your hair gets a cursory cleanse – you’re just hoping that if it’s raining outside, it’ll wash away.

Your clothes are left alone. If it’s not going to kill you then it’s not worth the waste of resources. The thought gets you teary-eyed, but you have to prioritise.

You turn to Leon. He’s been sitting quietly next to you, slouching against the green cache boxes and head hanging back, arms folded over his chest. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly open as he catches his breath. He really does looks like shit.

(Hot shit, your recovering mind cheekily supplies. Clearly, if you can still make jokes, then it mustn’t have been as bad as you thought.)

((it was bad))

“Are you hurt?”

He moves, lids fluttering open by a crack. “Tired, more like.”

You raise a clean wipe.

“Go for it.” He lowers his head, coming closer. You turn sideways and get to work.

There isn’t anything romantic about it at all; just two people trying not to be filthy messes. Exhaustion draws on your bones, and honestly? It’s a struggle to not accidentally slap his face as your muscles would rather flop around and do jack. This must be the adrenaline crash. With no more fear keeping you going, you’re just about ready to take a nap – a nap to _never wake me the fuck up_ land.

You manage to remove most of the dust and speckles of blood from his face, but there’s an unfortunate amount similarly clinging to his hair. Without processing it first, your fingers smooth themselves between the blonde strands, flaking away anything willing to come off. You’re just trying to avoid unnecessary infection. It doesn’t mean anything.

(What are you trying to convince yourself for? Stupid. It’s not as soft as you thought it’d be. But that might just be all the crap in it.)

You don’t pay any mind when he blinks up at you, blue gaze intently roaming along your face as you do your thing. Fluffing up the locks shakes most of the dust out of them.

You avoid direct eye contact. It’s a little embarrassing, truth be told. But you can’t help yourself – you comb your fingers through it again, even when you know there’s nothing more you can do. You just want to. He doesn’t seem to mind though, content to let you do whatever, watching you almost sleepily-like. The feeling is mutual. It’s only been around a half-hour since you last checked your watch but it feels like a lifetime.

When you can’t lie to yourself any longer, you pull away.

The rest of him seems put together well enough; there aren’t any tears in his clothing and the vest is still going strong. Covered in shit, like you, but again – not a priority.

You grab the medallion from his limp grasp. You can’t stop to rest now, not yet. You’ll never get up if you do.

“Let’s get this over with.”

It slots snuggly into the stone. Like previously, the last remaining layer of the statue’s base grinds out of place and slides into the floor, revealing the entryway below. It’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure.

The gate opens with little more fanfare.

Leon lights up the dark, narrow passage with his flashlight.

“You think this is it?” you ask, brimming with excitement.

“Yeah.” His grin is wholly determined. It’s the widest one you’ve seen yet. “That’s our way out.”

You sag like a tiny square bean bag in gym class. Five days. Five days and you’re finally free. It’s been a wild ride. All that’s left is to exit wherever this leads to, find a car, and hitch it out of this awful city.

You tell as much to the pilot.

“Seriously?” Phillips says, raising bushy eyebrows at the both of you. He doesn’t look any worse than when you’d last tended to him; he’s easily the cleanest of the three of you, and his entertained perusal of your dirty selves is not appreciated.

You cock a hip. “_Seriously_.”

He heaves a great, big sigh, as if you’re bothering him over something inane and trivial and not the good, life-saving fortune that it is. Like he’s only humouring your delusional fantasies to shut you up. What are you, five? It makes you grouchy.

He lifts his arms. You can’t wait to smack the doubt off his face. “Help me out here then. Can’t move with this damned leg.”

You sling his right arm over your shoulder, Leon under his left, and both of you pull him slowly and steadily to his feet. Getting down the main staircase is difficult and time-consuming, but it’s important he doesn’t injure his leg any further than it is.

He makes the most delightfully comical expression upon seeing the super-secret tunnel beneath the statue.

“Told you,” you whisper pettily under your breath, making no attempts to hide your satisfaction. It clearly leads underground, definitely not marked on any official RPD map. “And you thought I was _crazy_.”

Phillips rolls his eyes. But considering this change of events, he doesn’t appear to be too angry at having been proved wrong. You think he might even appreciate it, behind that grisly, stubborn grit to him.

Kind of reminds you of Marvin, except he’s a lot nicer and not so grim. And also definitely dying.

“But what about Officer Branagh?” You remind Leon.

He glances over his shoulder at the resting officer. Between the lickers and everything else, you’re not sure if he’s had any time to really think about and consider what you’d said.

Marvin Branagh is done for. You’re a hundred percent certain that he’ll be gone within the next hour. It makes your chest tremble, unhelpful thoughts pointlessly nagging you in the back of your mind. You’ve never seen someone go. You’ve seen the before, and you’ve seen the after, but never when the living dies and the dead wakes up; the time-consuming process of the their life running out of juice.

Until Marvin. Officer Branagh. The first human you’d seen alive in three days. You don’t want to say goodbye.

(yellow, divorced, three dogs and thirty-six)

Leon meets you eye for eye. “I’ll get him. You take Phillips inside. Have my flashlight.” He slips out from underneath Phillips’ arm, helping you lean the grumbly pilot up against one of the narrow walls. He takes your kit and replaces it with the torch. You flick it a few times, aiming it down into the darkness.

“On it.” You salute him and take your leave. Phillips makes sure to use every second to complain in your ear.

”I fucking hate stairs,” he mutters through gritted teeth, again. You just give him a consoling pat on the side.

You don’t know what you’re expecting when you finally make it to the room at the end of the stairs… Yeah. That’s all. You don’t know what you were expecting. The overhead immediately floods your retinas, allowing you to conserve battery light.

The space expands into a roomy, octagon-like office; a quality desk is obviously the main centrepiece, placed in a way that the seated person would have their back to the library built into the wall behind and the front open to the main area.

The floor pattern reminds you of an artistic compass. Not exactly the type of decor you’d casually have in your house just to admire. More like a museum, maybe. You know what this means? _Money_. In an underground secret room? A lot of money. And below the RPD precinct?

Something fishy is going on here… you are tickled with curiosity.

(One could say that this is where you start to lose it. This marks the moment you start thinking like a conspiracist, or a detective. It’s tragic either way. Police crazy _is_ contagious, and it’s all Leon’s fault.)

You help Phillips until he’s perched atop a large storage box. He pants and leans forward, elbow propped up on the thigh of his good leg. You pat his back awkwardly. You should probably check it soon, see if the stitches are still growing strong. Hopefully, they haven’t ripped. It was a pain getting them in the first time. But that can wait some more until Leon comes back and you have assured safety. You settle for exploration.

The most striking object in here is not the walls of bookshelves (you’re in love) or the typewriter (makes you want to write a novel on a rainy-day and prose dramatically), not even the little model of a mansion across the room (someone sure has a lot of time on their hands). Instead, you are taken by the miniature statue of a unicorn. The struggle against the urge to abscond with it is real.

You look away. You pause. Consider the flooring, the lightbulbs, the instruments atop the desk, every detail (no dust too) twice, thrice – and, _oh_, it computes. Oblivious idiot. You don’t know how you feel about this. Nothing good.

Phillips doesn’t seem to notice, too busy being in pain and all. He’s got other things to worry about. You’d rather not add more to his plate.

When Leon finally makes his appearance, you try to articulate as much as you can through facial expression alone. He doesn’t get it. The signs of gloom and discontent – taut skin across his jaw, muscles jumping his cheek and furrowed brows – transforms into better-looking puzzlement. He makes a motion at Phillips.

You roll your eyes and gesture insistently at the typewriter. It has fresh paper clamped in.

He contemplates it, head cocking until understanding crosses his face. Smart man.

You nod vigorously, eyebrows raised to your hairline, wishing you could just outright say, ‘Right?!’

Phillips lifts his head and gives you both the stink eye. “Knock that off, you look ridiculous.”

You gasp faux-offendedly. “_You_ look ridiculous.”

“Says the one wearing that god-awful jacket.”

You gasp for real this time, with genuine offense. It prompts you to straighten the colourful, water-proof material out, flicking off a few bits of crusty blood and tissue matter. It’s still warm inside, despite the trying times it’s gone through. And now, the smell of BO – if there’d been any to begin with, you don’t recall – has completely disappeared in favour of a more disgusting scent. Like blood and shit; maybe even literally. The only saving grace is that you’re not the only foul-smelling one in the room.

“This jacket saved your life!”

“Don’t mean I have to like it. You look like a tragedy walking on two legs.”

“Well _you’re_ a tragedy walking on _one_ leg,” you retort, snappily. You scrunch your face at Leon, gesturing aggressively at Phillips. “Can you believe this shmuck?”

Your act lightens up his mood considerably, dissolving the last, lingering regret in his eyes. Marvin isn’t with him. You don’t want to know what words were said. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one.

(You’ll save that trauma for later.)

“Settle down you two. Have you checked this out?” He peaks around the only other exit in the room. “Huh. It’s an elevator.”

“Ooh,” you say. “The mystery gets deeper.”

Again, from the combined effort of you and Leon – with little help from Phillips who more or less just gives up and hangs limply in your arms, same as always it seems – all three of you make it into the elevator. But not before Leon briefly browses over the files across the desk and leaves a note on the typewriter. The clacking makes you curious. But you’ll ask him about it later. What could he possibly want to leave here? Not like anyone alive will see it.

The rusting, grated doors slide shut, and the button flicks. Your stomach jumps up to your heart and falls to your pelvis when it does a little jolt. It’s not as smooth as a shopping mall elevator (which you have much familiarity with), drastically lowering your trust in its capabilities. At least the ride isn’t long, and opening up at least a floor or two beneath the station.

“Maintenance?” Leon wonders aloud, flashing around his light which you relinquish back to him. It feels good to have your kit again. The weight is sometimes an inconvenience, but it makes you feel ten times safer than without. You’ll admit it gets tiring to hold after a while.

“Probably crosses down into the garage and basement,” Phillip says above your head. This close, he reeks of sweat, the natural scent the material his vest is made of, and kind of burnt. Not that you’re sniffing him or anything.

“So…” you start. “Cars?”

“Likely.”

Two flights down is an opening that branches deeper into tunneled pipework. It’s reasonably well lit, which sets you on edge, and the wafting steam amplifies your wariness. Goosebumps raise along your skin, despite being quite warm inside.

Several steps in, something in the near distance makes a terrible sound. You swallow thickly. It’s not the average, gut-curdling groans the dead normally make. That’s just pure, gluttonous, sometimes angry – _hangry_ – hunger, the type of stuff to supply your brain with bad sleep juice.

This one will no doubt follow your waking nightmares. It’s wretched with pain and misery and makes you want to find a small spot in the piping and hide forever.

You freeze, both men following immediately. “What was that?” You nudge Leon’s side, near where your hand curled around Phillips is. “Maybe we should turn back. There’s still a few more flights, I’m sure they’ll take us someplace where there _isn’t_ something waiting to eat us alive.”

You want to give in to your inner urges and whimper. Wait. You’re shameless. You make a small, sad noise that garners you no sympathy. Heartless assholes.

Leon disagrees. “No. I’ll go alone. We can’t take him down and back up again if there’s nothing.”

Phillips looks to the ceiling. “Thanks. Feeling really helpful out here.”

Off put and not liking this idea one bit either, you pat his side. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something to do.”

Leon comes back from his little detour downstairs to discover both of you quietly playing a game of tic-tac-toe. It’s a weak distraction. But hey! Better than eye-spy.

(“I spy with my little eye something rusty.”

“Pipe.”

“Dang, thought I had that one.”)

When Leon raises an eyebrow like that, it makes him seem like the policeman he ought to be; yknow, the ones that pull over your car and give you a ticket, never taking the bait when you try to be cute. “Who’s winning?”

Phillips instinctively looks up from your hands to Leon. He’s not an experienced player. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to look away. It’s an innate life rule genetically inherited. “S’not exactly a winning game–“

“Me!” you interrupt, striking out and jabbing his stomach underneath the vest. He twitches violently and bends over with a dazed grunt, messing up the sequence. “I win.” You turn to Leon. “Find anything?”

He clutches a grenade.

Phillips lends you a dirty scowl and turns back to Leon with as much incredulity on his face as you feel. “The hell is that doing here?”

“I have no idea, but it’s handy.” He tucks it away into a pocket. “Think you’ll be fine if we leave you here? I want to make sure that it’s safe first.”

The pilot waves a hand, getting comfortable on the floor. He splays himself against the door frame, bending up his good leg and allowing the other to lie flat. He unholsters the gun Leon had previously given him and waves you away with. Not with his gun hand of course. That’d be bad practice.

(He’s already crashed a helicopter tonight)

“Good as can be. You have fun dealing with that without me.”

You’re half tempted to just plop yourself down and follow suit. He glowers like he can read your mind.

_Fat trees make me cry! _

You inspect his face for any changes. Nothing. You tried your best.

He points at you with a heavily gloved finger, shaking it beneath your nose. You lean back and screw up at it. “And you, kid – I want a rematch after this.”

“You just can’t admit defeat,” you reply airily and toss your hair haughtily over your shoulder. It has the added effect of jingling your earrings. Hello there, comfort and coping mechanisms.

_Hullaballoo!_ You think with fever. Sadly, still nothing. _Leon has a hot ass. Leon’s competence is attractive enough that it overrides his dying need to fight everything dangerous. Leon could take a bite out of you and you’d thank him for it._

Phillips’ nose twitches. Your eyes widen. _Ohmygod–_

“Yeah, yeah, no more cheating next time. I’ll fling you over the railing if you try.”

You damper your suspicion and refraining from squinting. Can’t let him know you’re onto him. Keep it cool, keep it cool. You roll your eyes smugly, stepping into Leon’s trail as he leads you on. “What, with that bum leg? Oooh, I dare you.”

“You’re laughing now…”

The grated walkway turns into cement, opening to a larger room furnished with what you hesitantly guess are parts of a generator of some sorts. It gets progressively warmer; the heat makes you tense, just as well as Leon. He cuts an imposing figure ahead of you, taking steady steps with his gun raised, appearing on edge and battle-ready.

Your walk expands again at the far end into a way, way larger room. You’re not sure what it’s used for, how all this stuff is relevant to the station, but you’re not a mechanic. You can’t tell if this is normal or completely unexpected. Leon doesn’t seem to know the answer, observing the furnishings with as much caution as you.

“Nothing here,” you murmur, near silently, about the origin of the noise.

“Yeah,” Leon agrees, tightening his stance. “Nothing. Stay close, this doesn’t feel right.”

You do as he says, practically stepping on his boots as you turn the corner on the walkway. You step back and huddle near the wall when he makes a move to push up the metal shelf blocking the doorway into the supervisory room.

It’s hard not to admire his strength (and his body, even hidden as it is under his uniform) as he lifts it back up into place, resting it against the wall with minor clatter. Agh. _Adorable_, you beam when he lets out a tiny grunt of effort.

Of course, that’s when the – the _thing_, you’ve no other words for it – drops from the ceiling and grabs Leon in a chokehold. You startle so bad you squeak and fall to your ass, scrambling hurriedly away.

The half-human half-mutated nightmare bursts forward and slams Leon down underneath him.

“Jesus!” You hear Leon exclaim over the abrupt terror that takes hold of you and the loud seizure – aneurysm, hell, goddamned _heart attack_ the thing is having. Its shoulder jumps up and up and up, enlarging rapidly in the span of several seconds. When it faces your way – you throw up a little in your mouth.

Dirty and yellow with massive veins across the sclera, sitting in the socket of the mutated shoulder – it’s an eyeball. An _eyeball_. It’s bigger than the size of your fucking head. You couldn’t play basketball with that thing – it’d get stuck in the hoop, it’s that huge.

So, you might be wrong here. Might, being the keyword. But you have the sneaking suspicion that this – this is where that sound came from.

It lets out a roar and proves you right. It also bangs Leon so hard into the walkway that the _metal grating_ caves inward, pulling away from the mainframe.

You can only watch in wide-eyed horror as they fall beneath into the pipework maze. The only way up is from the ladder across the room, locked up way out of human reach. You fleetingly think about jumping the gap but it’s too wide – if you cross too short, you’ll fall with them.

“Shit,” you utter. “_Shit!_” You stagger to your knees, stumbling your way to the newly-developed hole. “Leon?”

He pants, grabbing his shoulder, before rolling onto his front and pushing up. “Crap.”

How is he not anymore vocal about this!?

“Leon…” you say, eyeing the wriggling monster with extreme distress. “I think this is the moment where you _run_.”

He gives you a half-hearted glance upwards. “Yeah, definitely. I don’t think words will work on this thing.”

You make a little noise. “Now is so not the time for jokes!”

He salutes you with ill-timed cheek and sprints away. The monster – and its weapon, a long, bloodied, hard-hitting pipe – is quick to follow in pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you so mch, these comments and kudos make me so fuckng giddy i literally cant


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys for being so late. i had uni and it just took up all my time, but i finally got it done. I don't really like this chapter, mainly because of how much of the game is in it. Which sounds funny and stupid, but I hate rewriting. So I made changes to dialogue and shit, made it more appropriate in this setting. 
> 
> Next chapter is better, but not done. Might take some time to get it up though, cause semester is nearly ending and exams coming up soon.

The next several minutes are the most painful minutes that you’ve experienced, probably ever. It’s more nerve-wracking than the tense, few seconds before they’d announced Prom Queen – and that had been hell.

You’ve never been so helpless, unable to do anything but stand by and watch from above as Leon is literally three steps away from being beat to a horrific death.

“Left!” You cup your hands around your mouth, leading him away. “Go left go _left_ – wait, no, go right! Go right!”

Your heart almost lurches out of your chest when he dodges a heavy swing – it’s such a near miss you almost die right then and there. You can’t help the ineligible whimpers escaping your throat, far too tempted to cover your eyes. The blaring alarm and pressurised steaming doesn’t help your anxiety.

It’s bad when you can see them, and worse when you can’t. Your heart is jumping a skip rope marathon in your chest and winning first place, and all your muscles clench so hard that it starts to hurt. These aches are going to kill you later. If the fear doesn’t get to you first, anyway.

He takes a few shots, but they have little affect.

“Leon – _Leon_!” You call desperately. “Shoot the eye! Shoot the eye!”

“_You_ shoot the eye!”

You make a face. Is now really the time for sass? “You trust me that much?!”

“I can duck!”

“_Bullets?!_”

Frantic and too anxious to use the handgun at your hip, you throw a flash grenade. It doesn’t do anything. Despite being chased by a mutated and inhuman monster, Leon still finds time to throw you an incredulous look.

In your stupidity, you forgot to pull the clip.

“Sorry!”

You duck and cover your eyes as he makes use of the grenade, ears crackling with white noise. It stuns the monster enough for Leon to shoot his remaining ammo, reload, bury another two bullets, and then roll the real grenade he’d found earlier and duck out of the way.

Leon, unlike you, does not become an idiot under desperate times. It’s an established fact that has proven itself true many times tonight. This is not the first and you don’t expect it to be the last. The grenade goes off, dealing another severe blow to the monster, and allows Leon to fire rapidly.

It works until it doesn’t. With an enraged growl, the monster disappears from sight. Not even you can find it from high above, shrugging cluelessly when Leon turns to you for guidance.

He cautiously navigates his way back so you can lean down and hand him the stash of ammo you’ve been hoarding in your bag. You have to lie ungracefully across the walkway, stretching your arm like taffy to reach. Ever the over-thinker, this better not give you tetanus.

You take this chance to ask if he’s okay. “No broken bones?” You scan his form hopefully.

“No, just bruised.” He shakes his hair out of his eyes, getting a better view of the maze. “Liver might be fractured, but that’s about it.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “Now? Really?”

He doesn’t look at you, too busy being capable and studying his surroundings with an admirable vigilance. You spot his lips quirking despite it. “Hey, what can I say? You–“

And then, like a fish in a bucket in search of water, your lungs try to propel their way out of your body with a startled shriek. Communication between mouth and brain completely ceases to exist. A long whine builds itself up in your throat as you become the epitome of distress.

Why?

Because in the split-second Leon looks the other way, the monster suddenly lunges out from beneath an undercroft of piping, knocking him straight to his ass.

(Hello there, _bladder_. We’re not accepting walk-ins at the moment, our sincerest apologies for the inconvenience. We’ll get in touch once we find a working, habitable bathroom. Thank you!)

You don’t know how it hid itself under there, but you’re too busy wading knee-deep in Lake Worry to question how physics and the real-world works.

Another twenty years of life gone in ten minutes. That’s a total of thirty now. Knowing your luck, you’ll die the moment you free yourself of this city. You don’t know how much more excitement you can deal with.

At this point, all you can do is cover your eyes, ruminate over your poor life decisions and wonder what the hell you did in a past life to deserve this.

—

—

Anguished, the monster lurches back, grappling at its enlarged shoulder. It – because it’s not a man anymore despite the few biological remnants – stumbles backward and hits the safety railing. Being so top-heavy, the momentum pushes it over and it falls deep.

With one final scream that resonates within your head, which scrapes along the surface of your intestines and every pore like knives on a plate, it’s gone.

—

—

You press your lips together, guiltily eyeing your boots, the wall, the freaking dust bunnies hopping in the corners – anything but him. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: ugh. You’re embarrassed and ashamed.

But then he’s standing right in front of you and grabbing your hands, his larger, gloved fingers curling around yours to hold gently in your cusp an unused grenade. Your gaze is drawn to his in the same way that a bee is attracted to pollen, a moth is to a flame, and babies are to eating dirt.

He’s got those kind eyes. The ones that are gentle, that taste like hot chocolate and warm rain, stupid jokes for stupid laughs. It leaves you winded. Here he is, sweaty and bruised, covered in coagulating gore and dust, smiling sweetly at you.

He almost died.

(It’s different to his past smiles – softer, a little smaller but no less real, there must be something going on with the lighting in here or maybe it’s just your eyes because you’d even go so far as to call it _tender._)

“Next time,” Leon says, pointing out the metal clip on the egg-shaped explosive. “pull it out and then throw. It works better that way, trust me.”

You nod. Tongue too tied to say anything witty and casual; if you let it run, you’ll probably spew something cheesy and sincere like ‘I trust you.’ You don’t want to humiliate yourself further.

And then he does something that renders you even more speechless – he curls his hand affectionately around the nape of your neck in a quick, casual move, lightly swiping your cheek on the way. But not in the cute, friendly, romantic way he probably meant for it be. The straightforward stuff that you’re used to. Because it totally could be, and you are very much appreciative of the idea of his hands – _ungloved_ hands – fanning you with adoration and worship and everything else he has to offer.

But his hands _are_ gloved. And there are _things_ on them.

“Leon!” You hiss, jumping away. The moment is ruined. Your fingers scramble to wipe off your skin, shaking the goo and whatever the hell else is coating it away. It doesn’t work. Your hands are just as dirty from where’d he held and you give them a betrayed glare. “Your glove is filthy! That’s disgusting!”

His eyes shutter, caught in abrupt laughter. He snorts so hard he has to bend over and cough, thumping his chest. “Shit, sorry. I forgot.”

You glare dirtily. “Forgot my ass.”

“I’m serious,” he says between bouts of chuckles. He lifts up his hands, stepping forward. “Here let me–“

“Oh no.” You literally leap back. “Nuh-uh. You can stay right over there and far away from me, Leon Kennedy.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Me! _Dramatic?_ You’re right! But this is the real deal, okay?” You wheeze when he persists, coming nearer, gaze fixated on the dark material covered in red goop and does it really need to be said? It’s gross and diseased and that’s all that matters.

He stops and surrenders. “Happy?”

“No,” you grouch, just cause, and try very hard to rub at your skin. The only way to feel clean again is to bathe in liquid soap. No water, just soap. Vanilla-orange scented soap. It’ll come out of the government’s pockets when you sue them after all this.

Very slowly, he walks around you, on the path back to Phillips. You twitch violently when he does a fake lunge, hands making grabbing motions.

“I’m joking,” he laughs, pulling away. “Look, I’ll even put them in my pockets.” And he does, shoving them into the blue pants of his uniform where you can’t see, just for show. “Better?”

A little. You purse your lips. “I’ve got my eyes on you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And I welcome them. Unless you mean like a single, giant eye, because then I’d have to–“

You can’t cover his mouth with your hands like last time, so you start talking random nonsense very loudly and very fast to drown out his voice.

“So, yesterday, I had this really wild dream that my philosophy professor was driving our class down the highway on a motorised egg because we were being chased by zombies – except they were the his rival’s maths class so instead of growling they were quoting these terrible equations and things like ‘integers’ and ‘logarithms’ and ‘derivatives’, whatever the hell that is. It was terrible! And then he crashed us into a gym and–“

“Okay – I get it.” Leon gives you a cheesy grin, withholding the corny line he was no doubt about to spew. “I’m too witty for you. You can’t handle it.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” you say flatly, trying not to giggle in return. “I’m weak. Your corniness just does it for me; any more and I’ll melt into a puddle.”

He shakes his head, forlorn. It musses his hair delightfully. “I’m irresistible.”

The sad thing is that he really is but he says it like a joke.

(This idiot. You’ve been out here blushing all night. Did he think it was just something you did?)

“Come on, Mr. Irresistible,” you drawl, unable to say it without smiling toothily. You can’t help yourself; he really is. “We’ve got a pilot waiting for us.”

“He really missed out, huh.”

“Oh, I think he’ll be fine.”

**[--]**

“It’s not gonna work.”

“Yes it will.”

“I’m telling you kid, it won’t.”

“You’re so pessimistic.”

“I’m _real_istic. And right.”

Leon grunts, standing up from his knees and wiping off his hand. “That should do it. You two done?”

You make a face; Phillips makes a face. To prove him wrong, you toss your nervousness over your shoulder like the tail-end of a headscarf and promptly stride across the dodgy fix. It’d been all fine and dandy until you both realised that a) you couldn’t jump far enough across the gaping hole the monster had made, and b) Phillips would have worse luck at it than you. Hence leading to Leon cramming the metal shelving through the doorway and magically laying it out like a bridge.

You’ll regret your hasty actions at a later date when you’re not trying to make a point. As is, your stomach does an entire tumble routine as the unit creaks underneath your weight. There’s no room to make any diet jokes, because you’ve probably lost more weight in the past week than you have in several years combined.

On the other side, you twirl around and point a finger at Phillips. “Hah! You go.”

It takes some time – he has to crawl by himself, don’t want to risk the stability if both or all three of you are on at the same time – but he gets there in the end. His face, which should be a healthy, bronze tan, is pale and showing signs of being very under the weather. He’s got big enough bags under his eyes that you could hang them stylishly on your arm.

“That felt worse than the chopper crashing.”

“Baby,” You tease.

Phillips smirks, despite his exhaustion. You don’t like it. “That’s funny, coming from that face.”

You gape. “I’m nineteen, excuse you.”

“Shit, you were born, when. Yesterday?”

“What about Leon, huh?” You scrunch your nose. “Why don’t you ever pick on him?” and then you blink, turning. “How old are you, anyways?”

“Twenty-two.”

_Sweet_. You love an older man.

“Babies,” Phillips says. “Babies with guns.”

Yeah, and this baby stuck a needle into his skin and sewed it back together. You don’t say that, though.

“Aren’t you like, thirty? You’re not that ancient.”

“I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”

Except this one. You do not love Phillips. Repeat. You do not like _this_ older man. Instead, you peer out the other door and point gleefully to the far end. “Oh, look! It’s your best friend. Stairs!”

“Alright, alright, fuck you.”

It’s not as bad as you think. Finally leaving this area takes you into a small room with some more lockers, a desk, another storage box and a few bits and pieces lying about. You decide that after everything you’ve gone through, it’s the perfect place to take a breather.

You check Phillips first. You even give him the chair to sit on, instead of letting him splay across the floor.

Miraculously, his leg is doing fine. Amazing, actually. You’re honestly surprised. The stitches are still in, and while it still appears raw, the blood flow has completely stopped. With hands that you finally clean – and your neck, because it feels like a priority – you softly prod at the clotted beginnings of a scab. It’s thick and solid, but flexible. You poke it again because you can. It’s kind of fun.

Bar an initial grunt, Phillips doesn’t make any noise. Badass. Make no mistake – an asshole, but a badass asshole. You wipe around the wound, cleaning away the remaining dry, crusted over blood, slather it in anti-bacterial cream, and pad the area. You wrap it in clean new bandages because you think you can afford to. That done, you roll his pants which you’d refused to cut and tuck ‘em into his boots for extra measure.

“I’m not dying, yeah?”

You shrug, hands your hips as you admire your work. “We won’t know if you’ve got an infection until at least tomorrow, I think. So for now? You’re still alive!”

“Huh. That’s some good work.”

You flap a hand. “I know. I’m amazing.”

“And humble too.” And then he settles himself more comfortably into the seat, jelly-like. “Alright. I’m taking a nap. Night.”

He starts snoring near instantly. What you would give to join in.

You turn on your heel, catching Leon in a deer-in-headlights look. He’s perched on the little foot-step, bent over with exhaustion and leaning his elbows atop his knee, taking a rest. Good. He deserves it. His mouth is half-open, eating a large chunk of a granola bar which you’d given him. He slowly bites it. You wag a finger. “And you! I wanna look at your back.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“That line literally never works in the films and it won’t work here. Now move.”

He doesn’t take off his uniform, which, _damn_, but understandable. Nobody wants to be vulnerable and naked right now. Instead, he removes the vest and lets you prod gently at his neck. The skin is red and raw, but not broken. Thank god. You don’t know what you’d do if Leon got infected. You clean it up and then dab it with an antiseptic wash, pat it dry, and rub in some cream for the pain.

He relaxes into your hands like a cat, entirely at ease with your impromptu sort-of-massage. Maybe, if you listen in closely, you’ll hear him purring.

You have to remind yourself that you are not here to take advantage of the hot men.

When you’re done and remove your hands, he blinks at you, a little dazed. “What’s that for?”

You shrug. “You looked sore. Thought you deserved some relief, after everything.”

He clears his throat. “Oh. I hadn’t even noticed, to be honest.”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to check you out. What if you got hurt and you didn’t realise?”

Leon smirks then. “You wanted to check me out?”

… and there it is. You walked right into that. Alright, you’ve had enough. You need to take your spotlight back. You fold your arms and lean in challengingly. Time to embody your horror-flick teenageness with time-inappropriate sass. “If you haven’t noticed me checking you out all night, then I think you’re the one with an _eye_ problem, Leon.”

Something amazing happens. Leon stutters. He flushes, ears going a touch red, and turns slightly away from you to scratch at his nose.

Your mouth drops. This is not what you expected. He goes from suave and cheesy to endearingly sheepish at the flick of a switch.

You _beam_.

Oh, sure, you enjoyed it when he was spouting off the flirty one-liners. All that mushy stuff that had you flattered and fumbling. Hella embarrassing, totally sudden, but damn, you can admit they were good afterwards. You just didn’t think you’d get any at a time like this.

But this. This is better. You are utterly swept off your feet.

“And you call _me_ corny,” he retorts, trying to regain his footing. Feeling generous, you allow it. For now. But you don’t let him off the hook entirely, giving him a little look to show him that you_ know_. You know how to make him weak. He’s so not getting away from this.

(When it’s appropriate, of course. You’re still in Raccoon, there are some pressing matters that need to be addressed first.)

Now he’s the one making faces. “Right, uh.” He shuffles away, cramming the rest of the granola bar into his mouth and chewing furiously. The wrapper goes into a little bin by the desk. He looks like a squirrel. Those cheeks! “Look, a ladder!”

He jogs off to said ladder. _Nice_. You’ve never been so proud, so smug.

It’s at this moment that Phillips wakes up from his cat-nap. “Did I hear ladder?”

You snort.

[—]

“So…” you say, anxiously leaning against the wall. “What’s the verdict?”

When his shoulders fall, so does your stomach.

“No.” You shake your head, disbelieving. “No. Please tell me it’s not–“

“Locked,” Leon finishes grimly. He almost passes his fingers over his mouth before halting, brow furrowed as he considers the low-lit garage.

You open your mouth. Close it. “We can’t – can we force it open? There’s gotta be a side-door, right? We can take one of the cars outside, one of them’s gotta have a key. This can’t be the only–“

“Hey, calm down.” He grasps your arms, stopping your quivering. You lend him a wide-eyed look, shutting your mouth. You swallow. Deep breaths. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. His touch is grounding. “That’s it. Keep breathing.”

Idiot, letting panic get the better of you. You’re better than this, you’ve proved better than this. When have you let something so measly stop you before? You ran by a herd of zombies and climbed the goddamn fence. You sewed Philips’ fucking leg back together – you can’t even sew up the holes in your socks properly, they always irritate your toes afterward. And he’s alive! He’s taking a nap down in that safe room because he can!

Don’t be a fool. Hysteria was for days past.

“You with me?”

You nod. “Yep. Got it. Let’s uh – let’s look around.”

You go one way, Leon the other. The search doesn’t take long. Not because you miraculously find a key-card, but because you’re interrupted. Like always. You need to cut the crap with expectations and shit because everyone you’ve had tonight has been easily surpassed.

Door open, you’re bent over the driver’s seat, fiddling with the junk littered across the black carpeted floor. It’s a very compromising position to say the least.

That is, of course, when the dog growls. You still, head lifting. You squint into the darkness of the car. That sure doesn’t sound good.

Behind you, Leon mutters, “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

You withdraw hastily, hitting your head against the console and wheel in succession. You hiss a muttered swear. You don’t know what help you can provide, but you’d rather not be ass-up and head-down vulnerable.

“Fuck!” Leon swears. The dog makes a growl that sends your gut shriveling. Something heavy hits the ground. You hope that’s not Leon. “Get off me!”

(Knowing him it likely is.)

Your brain does the stupid. It makes you turn around and immediately rush forward to tackle the zombie-dog.

But before you can finish this act of foolery, somebody shoots it. The canine – a German shepherd that looks awfully like your own Dumpling, only bloodier, growly and zombified – slumps over.

You stare wide-eyed.

“Hey.”

Footsteps. Heels? They clack against the concrete, echoing louder than what you’re comfortable with. It throws you off. Who wears heels at a time and place like this? Even you have your priorities set better than that.

With you and Leon distracted by the newcomer’s arrival, you miss the dog picking itself back up again. You don’t miss it when it starts growling though.

On reflex, you curb stomp it’s head before it can so much as think about sniffing for the local squirrel. And by squirrel you mean Leon. They’re both cute enough that there must be some common ancestry going on there.

“Sharp instincts,” the feminine voice compliments. She steps out of the shadows, gun poised at you before switching over to Leon, who quickly snatches is own from the floor and levels right back at her. You’re not sure if there’s even anything inside it.

“Lower it.”

She wasn’t talking to you, but you lower your hands even though they’re empty. You don’t even remember bringing them up. She just radiates that kind of energy. Heels, a professional coat and shades? And then she brings out the badge. You are inspired. In awe. You are blown completely away by this feat of badassery. And maybe a little jealous at how put together she is while you’re out here looking like a disaster. Cute disaster, you wish, but still a disaster.

Leon, politely although reluctantly, thanks her.

“I’m surprised you made it this far,” she says, but by her void tone you can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not. “Both of you.”

You have no room to feel offended. You just shrug and nod in sheepish agreement, because hey – she’s not wrong. You’ve had too many opportunities to die so far and somehow you’ve avoided all of them. Leon is definitely a factor in that.

As soon as you help him up – or he lets you help him, for peace of mind, because he doesn’t seem to need the help to be honest – he starts trailing the special agent clicking away, pestering her for answers. Predictable. We are here with Detective Leon Kennedy, on the scene. “You’re FBI? So you know what’s going on here then. You know how this started.”

“Sorry. That information’s classified.” She throws over her shoulder coolly.

You step ahead of Leon, asking the more important question. “Has anyone–“ you clear your throat. “Did anyone make it? Outside Raccoon?”

She’s clean. Doesn’t seem affected at all by what’s going around. She’s too… too okay. Too stable. She doesn’t have that air about her. You don’t think she’s been here for long.

(And maybe that can be explained by her FBI status, but you don’t think so. You don’t think anyone, professional or not, could be unaffected by all this.)

She stops walking and looks at you. Considers you. You don’t have the capacity to be intimidated. You’ve seen too many things to be cowed by living people. She could be peeling your skin like a mask and name all of your body parts threateningly and you wouldn’t have a single bother in the world. 

She tilts her head. “Next town over. They have a camp for the early evacuees.”

The breath whooshes out of you. Hearing those words inspires the same sense of wonder you get when you find out you got a D minus on a maths test when you thought you were getting an F. It’s that same relief you felt when the school finally unclogged the second and third-floor bathrooms after someone flooded it with Count Chocula. You had to run a marathon every time you needed to take a piss.

This woman, whoever she is – she strengthens your hope. She makes your resolve more concrete, more solid.

Maybe it sounds dumb, but it works. People would probably laugh at you if they knew your thought process. Hope is for the optimistic and naive. How is hope going to save you? It’s not physical, it can’t protect you with a bullet and a vest.

But it doesn’t need to do that. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. You brace yourself with determination. It burns inside, from that fragile little flame on a nearly empty lighter, to smoking up a pine-scented candle and eating logs of wood at a campfire, until you now find yourself with a bonfire. It’d taken a heavy gust from the missing key-card, but it’s been righted now. Hotter and more resolute than ever.

You swallow and nod thankfully, trying to meet her eyes through the shades.

Leon is nothing if no persistent. “Where are you going?” He manages to sound simultaneously confronting and mildly concerned.

She looks at him flatly. “Do yourself a favour: stop asking questions and leave.”

Wrong choice of words, lady. You don’t think Leon is physically capable of that.

And then she disappears behind a door at the further end, not looking back. It’s very cool and dramatic and reminds you of a noir film. You hadn’t realised how annoying it is in real life. But it totally fits her image, so you give it some leniency. You can’t fault her for having style.

You immediately turn to Leon. “She looks like a total badass! I want a trench-coat like that. Think I could pull it off?” You twirl a little, pretending to model around. It wiggles your earrings and you fluff up your hair. You imagine buying one with the money you’ll demand from the government. God, you’ll look so hot.

Leon doesn’t seem to share this train of thought. His face is sour, still staring at where she’d last been seen.

You sigh. It was too good to be true to make that work. He’s a dog that’s finally caught the trail and he won’t give it up. “You wanna follow her, don’t you?”

He looks at you. “How’d you know?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m psychic.”

He’s still got that disgruntled scowl, but you can see the signs of you wearing him down. It’s all in the eyes. And Leon has very emotive eyes.

“Let’s go.”

[--]

You don’t find her. She’s sort of just disappeared into thin air. Literally. Leon had you run around with him, checking every corner of every room. No dice. She’s gone.

(He even marks off the rooms on his handy new map.)

After an anxiety-inducing walk past the unlit jail cells – or hell, as you quickly decide, latching onto the back of Leon’s vest when something jumps out at you. You thank your arms, legs, boobs and whatever God is watching you from the sky above that they’re all locked. Chance of death has critically decreased.

Around the corner there’s a cell that’s different to all the others. The heady smell of tobacco lingers in the air. Your nose screws up. 

“Hello?” a man’s voice picks up, cautious.

You peek around Leon’s form, blinking against the bright light-strobe.

You peg the man to be in his forties. Or maybe late thirties? Unless he’s just really, really unfortunate, which you would then say early thirties but that feels like a stretch. His outfit is marginally composed, with little spotting of anything outside of the norm. He doesn’t look touched. But he’s got that air to him; that feeling. You can tell he’s seen some shit.

“I don’t believe it.” He pushes himself to his feet, nearing the bars, glancing between you both almost feverishly. Or desperately. You’re hit with a wave of deja-vu. “A real human. _Two_ humans.”

Leon, ever helpful, asks, “Have you been here long?”

The man lets out a breathless chuckle. “Long enough my friend, long enough. Are we the last ones alive?”

His behaviour reminds you of your own, way back earlier. When you first met Marvin and Leon. You couldn’t believe your eyes. Thought that the crazy was getting to you. What had you said?

You stare at some dirt on the wall. Oh, yeah. You told Leon you had to take a leak. That feels so long ago. You’d just blurted out the first things that had been in your mind at the time. It’d felt too good to meet another person that you’d just lost the filter. Threw it into the trash with little care. Not that you had a set standard to begin with, but the minimal reserve you’d had was gone. Isolation really does that to you. Worse, knowing what’s around the corner.

The cigarette flying and hitting the floor catches your attention, pulling you back to the present.

“I was about to blow the whistle on his dirty ass.” The man says with contempt. Who’s ass is dirty?

You ears perk up. What did you miss? Is this a conspiracy you hear? “What did he do?”

He gives you a fleeting look. It makes you uncomfortable. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

And then, suddenly, metal scratches metal, somewhere far off. Suspicious noises make you suspicious. And scared. Not this again. Please, _please_. You’ll pray to anyone at this point.

You step a little closer to Leon, even though you’re practically up against him already. Your mind goes to Phillips and hope he’s okay. He’s still got the gun on him, and he’s in a pretty secluded area.

Unlike you and Leon. Conspiracy Man, as you now dub him, is relatively safe inside his jail cell. He does a startlingly 180.

“Hey, I’ll make you a deal.” Gone is the smug distaste and he gets up desperately in Leon’s face. “Unlock this cell and I’ll give you this. There’s no other way outta that parking garage, believe me. You _need_ this.”

Your eyes narrow on the key-card. If you just – lean over a little, you could – you could – oooh. You have the reflexes. You could snatch it right out of his hand. Your muscles tense, readying themselves.

Leon shifts as if to prevent you from doing exactly that. You’re uncertain if it’s coincidental or not. Instead, you tug urgently on his elbow. Take the deal. Taaaaake it. 

Leon exhales sharply, deliberating. He looks down the hall where the noise originated, to you (brows furrowed, disturbed), and then Conspiracy Man, who appears more and more frantic the longer Leon says nothing.

You give up on letting him make the decisions and take the wheels yourself. He’s too conflicted about his duties – can you really trust a guy that’s been locked up?

You lean forward, speaking over the grating sound getting louder. “How do we open this?”

Conspiracy Man fumbles with the card, eyes darting around. “There should be a switch, or – or – something. There, that. What is it?” He gestures demandingly to the panel nearby.

He’s lucky. It’s definitely for the power. And then he’s unlucky. The parts are missing. “Shit,” you whisper, and then again, louder. “Shit. It – it won’t open.”

“What d’you mean it won’t open? Just do it, do something!” His voice is getting hysterical. The noise is coming closer, setting your nerves on edge. Leon’s arm is rigid beneath your hand.

“We can’t get you out. I’m sorry,” Leon says, and he means it. “We’ll come back for you. Just wait here.”

Well, no fucking duh. He can’t go anywhere else.

“What?” Conspiracy Man’s breathing gets faster. “No, c’mon man. Don’t be an asshole. Just – just open this fucking thing–“

You flinch at the next high shriek of metal. You need to leave. Everything inside of you is telling you to go. _Now_. Urgency floods your veins and you tug warningly on Leon’s arm. He holds your hand still and continues his interrogation.

Now is _not_ the time to be stubborn.

“It’s coming. Shit. _Shit_.”

“What’s coming. What is it?”

“Leon,” you mutter, glancing around unhappily. You want to hide. Want to run away from this situation like the Road Runner from Looney Tunes.

“I know.” He reassures you but doesn’t look too assured himself. “We need to find the parts first, I promise. We’ll come back–“

Conspiracy Man backs away, not unlike a cornered rat. “No, no, that’s not good enough. Just get me the fuck outta here! Now–!”

You muffle your mouth with your hand, but it doesn’t hide the shocked shout that escapes.

The inner wall of the jail cells bursts into debris.

That’s right. You heard correctly. The goddamned layered brick and cement wall breaks apart like it’s a damned sandcastle. As if normal people can’t break their bones this shit.

You numbly take a few steps back, Leon bumping back into you, wide-eyed and unable to look away as a massive gloved hand breaches the wall and grabs Conspiracy Man by his face.

It raises him up, dragging him around through the wall like he weighs nothing more than a feather. His horrified, painful screams drown your ears.

And then – and then – _oh_. You can’t even describe it. It’s too sickening to make comparisons. The only image you can think of is throwing rotten tomatoes at your neighbour’s house, but even that’s weak.

Red flies everywhere. His bulging eye excites your gag reflex. You throw up a little in your mouth.

The hand lets go and his body slumps to floor, leant upwards against the wall. And then whoever it is – whatever it is – leaves.

Leon takes a shaky step forward, nearly tripping. He grabs hold onto the cell bars to steady himself. You drift sideways and slump onto the desk, curling up. You can’t tear your eyes away from the gruesome sight.

Of everything you’ve seen tonight, this is the worst yet. You’re too numb to think about self-preservation, and barely register it when the FBI agent arrives on the scene.

“Didn’t I tell you two to get out of here?” She purses her lips, looking down distastefully at the body of Conspiracy Man.

Oh, god. You think you’re gonna be sick. You didn’t even know his name. Leon grabs his stomach and you think he’s about to hurl. He doesn’t. That’s an iron will right there.

You wet your lips, blinking away the wet splotches in your vision. You answer her when Leon can only mutter his shock. “He–“ you take a shaky breath. “He had the key-card; we can’t get out without it.”

She hums. What’s that supposed to mean?

“Did you know him?”

“His name was Ben. He was an informant towards my investigation. He must’ve found something.”

It’s disturbing how unperturbed she is. Like it’s just another day at the office. Maybe it is.

Leon zones in, shaking some of the fear-induced adrenaline away. “What makes you think that?”

She raises a brow and motions at Conspiracy Man – _Ben_. It’s not a conspiracy anymore if you have proof. “He’s dead.”

“So he was right…” Leon shakes his head, and there’s disbelief on his face. He doesn’t like this, it’s in his expression, but you get it – he wants to know more, to keep prodding and digging deeper into this growing mystery. Things just keep cropping up that make no sense – even less sense than everything that’s already going on.

(Truthfully, you do too. Want to uncover what’s going on here, that is. But it’s sort of going against your need to survive, and honey, your priorities are pretty solid.)

Done here, the FBI agents snaps around on her heels and leaves, a lot quicker than she did in the garage. She probably thinks you’re both nuisances and wants to get away as fast she can. You would too if it were you in her position.

So it makes sense that you’re a little stunned when Leon doesn’t start after her, pestering her with a multitude of questions. The way he curls his fists and the tightness in his jaw tells you how much he would very much like to do so. He’d come at her like a freight train, you wager.

Instead, Leon turns and shares a look with you. It’s filled with irritation and little patience. His face is flooded with indignation. You nod in commiseration, giving a shrug like what-can-you-do? It makes you wonder what’s stopping him from going after her.

He deflates and hangs his head for a moment, before lifting it up with a determination you’re becoming familiar with. “Come on, let’s get this thing fixed and get that key-card.”

You’ve no objections to that. Anything to make this night end quicker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for the kudos and comments!! I love all of them and would love to hear more if you've got any ;D


	6. -- .-. .-.-.- -..- / --. --- -. .----. / --. .. ...- . / .. - / - --- / -.-- .-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so funny story..... I was planning to update on the release of RE3R, but I got the date wrong.... and when the actual release date was here, I wasn't ready to post...
> 
> but it's here now! This is more of a you focused chapter. Anyways, updating/editing all the grammar mistakes in the previous chapters, and the chapter 2? format annoys me. Not changing content though if anyone has a look through to check. I can't tell you guys when the next chapter is coming out.... but like, I've got some time so hopefully within the next two weeks or month it'll be up.
> 
> Quick refresher: You and Leon met Ada in the last chapter, also met Ben, also watched Ben die, and realise you've gotta find the electronic bits to get that stupid keycard, or find another way out.

**-..- / --. --- -. .----. / --. .. ...- . / .. - / - --- / -.-- .-**

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“This entire night isn’t a good idea.” Leon shines the flashlight up his chin, casting him in dramatic shadows like a 12-year-old boy telling scary stories above a campfire. He’s having far too much fun with that thing. “There’s no harm trying. I’ll go first.”

Disapproval radiates off of you. Leon does an admirable job at ignoring it; he tests the integrity of the ladder by prodding it with his boot. You stand there tersely until–

“Ugh!” you exclaim. “Pass me that.” You snatch the light and point it down the side of the wall – the very, very _tall_ wall, and its stupidly long ladder. “So you don’t fall and break your neck.”

He touches your elbow and rests his palm against his heart. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m sure you do,” you grumble. Outwardly: you’re a cranky troll. But inside? A boiling pot of nerves. And not the good kind, either.

Ever since you two fought (and tripped) your way back into the police station, you’ve been feeling out of sorts. Call it a gut feeling, but something doesn’t sit right with you. You find yourself looking over your shoulder more times than you can count, uneasy despite the ever handy and dependable Leon at your side.

But there isn’t any reason to, besides the usual. Nothing has suspiciously moved out of place that you’ve noticed and all the dead bodies are where they should be. Definitely no signs of anyone else living. You think you’d notice that nigh immediately if that were the case.

But something, something…. your spider senses are tingling. You continue to play a game of _Find the Difference_ in the RPD, to the detriment of your ever-growing paranoia.

Leon crouches and lowers himself onto the ladder. He regrips the metalwork, testing it out. “It’s, uh, a bit slippery.”

“It’s raining.”

“I know. Just making conversation.”

Did that sound nervous? You think it sounded nervous. Why does he sound nervous? It’s making _you_ nervous.

“I’d rather you focus on making conversation between your hands and the ladder.”

He snorts a quiet huff of laughter and climbs down a rung. Another, and one more. You bite your lip.

“See?” he calls up, but his head is still bent, focused on his hands and feet as he moves. “This isn’t so ba-_AD_!”

The ladder creaks. One agonisingly slow second and a foreboding whine that makes your stomach drop, before suddenly tearing away from its holdings and taking Leon down with it. He scrambles to grab at the brickwork and ledge, but no luck.

Your lungs jump and an involuntary gasp escapes you. “Leon–!”

“Shit!”

He hits the ground and the sound echoes in your ears. He doesn’t move, and you’re frozen like a bag of peas. Was that a crack you heard? Oh, please don’t be a crack. _Please_, just a nice, safe and meaty thud with no broken bones and ruptured spleens or punctured lungs–

He rolls over and groans, pushing himself up onto his knees.

You nearly wet yourself with relief.

“That… that wasn’t supposed to happen.” He staggers to his feet and takes a few wobbly steps to lean against the wall. When you flash the light on his upturned face, he squints and covers his eyes.

“No shit!” you shriek. “Did you hit your head?”

He touches the back of his head. “I think I bruised it a little.” His fingers come away clear. A good sign. You don’t know if you can trust him to identify a concussion. You can’t trust _yourself_ to identify a concussion, and you took the damn first aid course! Oh, you need a fan right now, something to cool off your nerves

You get down to your knees and lie across the roof, leaning your arm over the edge. “Here – take it. There’s no way I’m getting down there.”

The realisation dawning upon his face is as clear as – well, all things clear. The ladder was the only way down – and you don’t want to try your chances crawling underneath a burning helicopter. It’s a dead end. You’re stuck.

“You could jump?”

You stare at him. Something climbs your throat. Like phlegm. It’s too much to suppress – you burst into laughter so hard tears are building in your eyes. The flashlight falls out of your hands and lands in front of his feet. It rolls to a stop against his boot and flickers twice.

That has got to be the most _stupidest_–

You shake your head. “Oh no. Nu-uh. Not happening.” You point at him, giggling and out of breath. “Like hell!”

“What? It was just a suggestion…”

“Yeah. A dumb one!”

Getting a hold of yourself, you calm down. Take in a few, loud dramatic inhales to settle your diaphragm. It reluctantly works. “I’m gonna head back downstairs. There’s gotta be a window closer to the ground that I can climb out of or something.” You push yourself to your knees. You sound more hopeful than you actually feel.

That thing in your chest stutters when Leon looks at you like he is. He’s so concerned, face literally twinkling in the firelight, furrowed brows directed at you and the night sky overhead. You wanna smudge those wrinkles away, smooth out his face back into youthful composure. A calmness to rival the one you’d seen (and touched) back in the main hall.

Leon really looks his best when he’s happy.

“Be careful,” he warns. Even wags a finger at you. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

You point at yourself like _who, me? _And look around the empty roof for somebody else.

“I’m serious!” but he’s grinning, just a little bit. “I’ll come back for you, alright?”

_I’ll come back for you._ Is it hot in here or is that just you? Definitely just you. It’s raining for gods’ sake. Least he can’t see it.

“I know,” you say. It sounds confident. More confident than you actually are, which on a scale of one to ten, you’re sitting at about a minus-two. You flick your damp hair over your shoulder. “I’m amazing. It’d be a crime if you didn’t.”

“I’d sure hate to commit a felony, being a police officer and all…” he shrugs like, _what can you do?_

For a second, both of you just grin at each other. It’s sweet and a bit cheesy, but that’s alright. It’s a Moment™. And then it’s broken when the burning helicopter spits out a few balls of fire. You want to blow a raspberry at it. What a cockblock!

“I should go.” Leon throws a thumb over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. Actually, he kind of smashes his finger into the wall because he’s still leaned up against it. Pretty forcefully too, because he seems to have forgotten where he is…

You pretend that you don’t see him flinch. Pffft, instant regret.

Standing up, you dust off your dirty clothes (of which there is no hope for, ever) and salute. “See you later, yeah!”

He jogs off, peering over his shoulder at you several times. He makes some ‘I’m watching you’ gestures, even turning around fully at one point and walking backward to make his point. You just enthusiastically wave him away.

You’re heart rests a palm against its own chest and sighs. Same, buddy, same.

Of course, then he’s disappeared around the corner and you sort of just loiter around in the rain for a bit. You scratch your nose. Peer over your shoulder at the door.

Time to get a move on.

That way out isn’t going to find itself on its own. With one lingering look towards Racoon City’s sky, astoundingly clear of smog for once in its life and the stars so bright, you head back inside.

Back into the hellhole.

**..-. ..- -.-. -.- / .-- .- .. - .. -. --. / ..-. --- .-. / -.-- --- ..- / - --- / --. . - / .. - / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --- .-- -. --..-- / -..- / --. --- -. .----. / -.. . .-.. .. ...- . .-. / - --- / -.-- .-**

You are not known for making good decisions.

That being said, you get it in your head the brilliant idea of looking for that second electronic part.

Yes, yes, you know. You told Leon that you’d look for a way out through some window maybe. Even agreed to not do anything stupid, which is a lot to ask for, not going to lie. But you’re pretty sure they’re all being stalked by the undead…

Look, you won’t get into trouble, you swear it. Although uneasy, you and Leon had done a pretty bang up job of clearing out almost all of the rooms in the station. The staircase hallway back into the station had been full of dead people and scattered furniture – so a total mess, but worth it to clean up. Future-you will thank past-you ten times over when you have to go back down there.

That being said, you have a moderate amount of self-assurance that nothing _too_ terrible will happen. Just a little bit terrible.

Down in the main hall again, you pull out the RPD map. After some minor arguing, you gave in and accepted it. You didn’t trust it when Leon swore that he’d remembered the entire layout by now, because you knew that you definitely hadn’t. And you’d been running around with everywhere all night. You had to admit defeat when he insisted that something were to ever happen and both of you were separated, you’d need it more than him.

You track your finger along the hallways and rooms, marking out the path you need to take to get to the Clock Tower. It’s pretty straightforward, except for one thing…

You scratch your head. You could jump it? Just a little run and hop, and voila! It’s not as if you’re jumping from one cliff to another, or rooftop to rooftop.

Nope. Just between two bookshelves in the library. Two pretty wide bookshelves with a pretty wide gap in between. You don’t quite trust the stability of it, but you don’t think the shelf will tumble sideways if you screw up the balance.

Only one way to find out.

On the second level, you swing your backpack to the other side. It lands and rolls over once, coming to a neat stop. You back up a few steps, and get into a starting position; knees bent, palms on the ground, butt up and back muscles waiting to spring up.

All you need now is a real track, your old gym coach, and that annoying little gun that always startles you despite knowing full well that it’s coming.

(and some nice clothes too. You’d kill for a pair of sneakers – wait, you can’t use that phrase anymore. You _have_ killed, oh dear.)

You squint ahead, take a breath, and–

You’re airborne. It lasts for a very long second. Then your feet touch the ground and you bring your center of gravity down with them, tucking yourself into a tight ball and rolling with the momentum. You splay yourself like a starfish when it’s done and grin at the ceiling. Hah! To think that you thought you’d never need those gymnastics skills.

Laying for a few minutes to catch your breath, you think that a nap is starting to sound like a great idea. Your body shares the same sentiment, and quite vocally too. The aches are really hitting you right now for some reason. Is this what old age is? No wonder old people are always so angry and dreadful.

This floor feels amazing. Besides the off-putting smell of old blood and viscera, it’s quite comfy down here. They really paid for some quality rugs. Wait. Is your tax money? So technically _you_ paid for this rug. You could almost stay here forever. Maybe you would if you didn’t have some important things to do.

Like staying alive. Meeting up with Leon. Getting out of Racoon City. The usual.

But… one more minute. You close your eyes and slowly count the Mississippi’s away.

When it’s over, you reluctantly push yourself up to your elbows, taking another moment to pause and observe your surroundings, just enjoying the almost tranquil quiet, before getting up properly. You wipe off the dust and grime and throw your backpack on.

Time to move forward.

You exit into the Main Hall again, but two floors above the common area. It’s dark and dusty up here, little moats hanging in the air. There’s a lack of lighting that surprises you. It’s dimmer than you expected, despite the glow coming up from the first floor. You need to be cautious.

You take to the right, peer around the left walkway, and spot two of them aimlessly wandering around. Shit. You have to take them out. Can’t afford to leave them here when you’re sure there’ll be some backtracking in the future five or ten minutes.

Biting your lip and frowning, you think about how dumb you are. Your nerves sizzle a little, and anxiety creeps up on you. It’s been wont to do that lately.

Maybe… maybe you should just turn around and wait for Leon to get back…

No! You shake your head. Pat your cheeks. Snap out of it girl. No. You can do it. Soon. In five minutes. Just need to build up a little more confidence and then you can tackle this issue. Possibly even literally!

If this were TV, the scene would cut to a monotone flashback of Leon asking you to not do it, to just turn around when you can. But life isn’t TV, and it’s not that easy. You reason with yourself that it needs to be done because if you don’t, he’s going to up here eventually and do it himself.

Do you want to do it? No. Of course not. He was right on that account. But Leon’s not the only one capable of sacrificing little bits of himself to get through the night. If you can save him from this little bit of pain…

On your knees, crouching and peeking around the corner, you count the seconds. Take some time to breathe. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. Focus yourself. You don’t have much in the way of weapons, and the last thing you’re gonna do is try and shoot it.

You are _not_ that stupid.

(though your actions might belie that…many times over)

Isn’t it great then that you had the foresight to bring with you that oddly shaped trophy? Remember, the one that you’d first used to take down a lady when you first got here? Wow, great memories. Feels like a lifetime ago. You retrieve it from your <strike>inventory</strike> backpack.

It’s not a knife, but it’s as good as you’ve got. Will work in a pickle, 10/10. Couldn’t’ve asked for anything better.

You ready your weapon in your hand. You have the element of surprise here. Use it wisely.

Giving no time to second guess yourself more than you already have, you leap from your spot and sprint forward as quietly as you can. Without hesitation, you deliver a swift kick to the back of its knees. When it groans and stumbles down to a more manageable height, you raise the trophy and stab it right into the dead officer’s skull.

Blood spurts across your hands. Your fingers touch its matted hair. One tug, two tug, and the trophy pulls free, taking some brain matter and goo along with it. You stagger back but regain your footing quickly. There’s still one more left, and the noise seems to have attracted its attention.

You swallow harshly. The world goes dull. Everything seems flat.

Stepping forward very slowly, very quietly, you move in on it. It hasn’t actually noticed you yet, but seems to be in the motion of turning around. You’re not sure why it hasn’t smelled you yet or responded to the other one’s groan. They usually catch on quickly. Like a chain reaction. Maybe this one is just picky? Or unbothered. Standing there and staring into nothing, it's sure got a lot of time to spare. You wonder what it's thinking about. Health insurance, right? That always makes you want to stare forlornly into space.

Or, you think more grimly, that maybe it's just not hungry anymore.

You are a cougar in the jungle stalking an unsuspecting tourist because their clothing choice offends you and for that, they must die. And they also smell devastatingly good. It is a win-win situation.

Or a raccoon watching the neighbours garbage bin with beady eyes, greedy fingers, and a disturbing lack of soul. Truly the worst of the worst.

Holding your breath, you quickly slip behind it and take advantage of the situation before it can fathom what’s happening.

The office worker goes down with a surprised gargle and a crack.

Zombies – 0.

You – 2.

Sniffing, you wipe your hands down your jeans; same with the trophy. It doesn’t actually help much, considering the dirty state of your… everything, but it contributes to your peace of mind. At this point in your life, that’s the only thing you have going for you.

Murderous escapade over, you trudge over to the Clock Tower door. You push on it, but it doesn’t open. After jiggling the handle a few times and throwing your entire weight on the door, it finally gives in and you nearly stumble to your knees.

You don’t understand why everything is out to get you these days, but if they could just like, stop? You’d totally appreciate that.

It’s dark inside. What you would give to have a flashlight right now. For a few moments, you stand still. You cock your head, ear pointed towards the room at large. You don’t hear anything. Not even the quiet, laboured breathing the dead sometimes do.

It’s completely free of smell up here too. Just the natural scent of dust and old metalwork.

You conclude that it’s safe – for now. Quietly stepping forward, you reach out to what you’re certain is a table. It sure feels like one, beneath your wandering hands. You find something thing and rectangle like. A sheet of paper. Oh, goodie! A note!

It takes a bit of work to find a good angle, but you manage it. The moonlight is quite faint, but there is just enough that if you squint very hard….

It doesn’t say very much. Nothing that’s relevant to you. You don’t know what you expected. You put it back on the table.

New plan. You shuffle around, hands spread out in search of your next clue. That’s when you bump into a large–? It’s cold to the touch, and with many bumps around its circumference. You paint a picture of it in your head and realise it’s a giant gear. Another one is next to it, but they remain unconnected from each other. It’s missing a piece.

Well damn. Whatever. You’re not here to fix maintenance’s problems. You just want that electronic part, right? now, where is it….

You search the rest of the room as best as you can, but without any light, it’s a dead end. You can’t read any of the books, you found some herbs but you have no idea what colour they are, and this place is like a damn maze. If only you were a cat, then you would see everything better. Can cats catch the disease? Dogs can, as you’ve learned… but what about cats? Or birds? Or like, lizards too? They’re from different families, right?

Giving up, you prop your hands on your hips and tilt your head back. You breathe in deeply and take a moment to relax. Not thinking, not worrying over anything. In this one moment, you rid yourself of stress and the memories of tonight. You pretend that your somewhere else.

Like grandma’s attic. The lovely little hag is forcing you to clean it out. Apparently, she thinks there’s something up here that you’ll like. You hope it’s not her forty-year-old lingerie that she’s kept because of ‘memories’.

Or the boiler room in your apartment complex. Every now and then something turns off, the water goes cold, and everyone brings out the candles. You lose the short stick amongst your neighbours and they force a flashlight into your hand and shove you down the basement stairs. You’re not a very handy person, but a good kick or two usually did the trick.

There’s something charming thinking about the inane. The mundane aspects of life. Or maybe not so much as charming, but rather that you just… miss it. You miss the paper-thin walls and the smell of cinnamon porridge hanging in the hallway air; your elderly neighbour always left his door open after his morning walks. If anyone happened to be walking by, he’d try to invite them over for breakfast. Truth be told, it was not very good porridge.

You miss the radio playing from the next balcony over because it saved you the costs of buying your own. It's only a few dollars off your paycheck, but hey, those few dollars were better spent elsewhere. Don’t forget about the surrealist painting of flying pugs in the elevator. Nobody knows who owns it, but you have fond memories staring at while drunk out of your head.

Hell, you even miss the annoying couple upstairs that engaged in the most annoying, loudest, wonton _sex_ – actually, no. No, you don’t. What are you thinking? _Stupid_. You take that back. You’re really getting stir crazy in here. You could have lived your entire without listening to them go at it like rabbits. Your poor virgin ears. Woe is you.

Zoning back to into present time, you open your eyes and stare upwards. You can’t see the moon from this angle. Just the long bars of metal the pale light illuminates, the giant bell you didn’t think would actually still be here (because hello, police station? What do they need that for? You can’t ever recall in your life hearing this thing go off), and this little red box and you’re not quite sure what it is? 

You frown at it, little bit confused but not greatly concerned, just wondering why it’s there, cause it doesn’t look like it’s part of the metalwork and – OH MY GOD. Your mouth drops open. Is that it? Is that a toolbox? You step back, trying to see more. It’s got a darker extension that you think might be the handle, and–

Noooooo. You’re joking. That’s not–

You squint harder and step closer, even going on your tippy-toes.

No shiiit. Goddammit. It _is_ the toolbox! How the _hell_ are you gonna get up there?

**.-- .. - .... / - .... . / -. --- -. -....- ... - --- .--. --..-- / .--. --- .--. -....- .--. --- .--. / --- ..-. / ... - .- .. -. .-.. . ... ... / ... - . . .-..**

The gear. You need to get the gear.

You travel to the library – without your backpack because you don’t want it weighing you down when you’re coming back with the gear. It didn’t seem _heavy_ heavy, but even Leon had some trouble carrying it the first time. You hadn't been sure why he'd wanted to take it in the first place when you'd first found it in the East Storage room, but you're not going to question it now. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that. 

Jumping and rolling across the bookshelf bridge, you randomly decide to take the ladder. Why? Because you’ve been robbed, that’s what. You’ve never climbed a ladder in your life – or gone down one either. And the first time you get a chance, albeit very reluctantly, Leon broke it!

Not on purpose, but still. You’re certain that once he’d gotten down there safely and proved that nothing bad was going to happen, you would have totally come around. With very vocal hesitance, but sure.

Of course, it didn’t happen like that.

Getting onto your knees and crawling backward, you ever so slowly reach your foot down until the boot meets the rungs, and you grasp the side railing tightly. You lower yourself down. One step, next step, third step, down! It takes longer than expected, and all the while you ponder what Leon is doing. Is he alright? It can’t have been that long since you’d both parted ways. Five, ten minutes at most? It hadn’t taken you that long to navigate the police station.

Hmm. Add another five minutes to that. You did spend some time wandering around the Clock Tower oblivious in the dark.

You should probably look for a rope lying around here somewhere. With your luck, there should be one conveniently lying around here. Just need to find it. If Leon hasn’t figured a way to get past the burning helicopter, he’s going to have gym rope it up the side of the wall.

Oddly, you find yourself feeling… chipper? Not happy, exactly, but more upbeat than you have in some time. Especially considering that you’ve been on your own for some time now. Obviously, everything is better when Leon is there – it’s _Leon_, how can it not? 

It must be the progress you’re making. You nod, agreeing with yourself. That's what it is. You’re being very productive right now. Totally at odds with the past couple days. It's as if your most recent paranoia has just... vanished. Into thin air. Well, adios! Breathing is just that tiny bit easier now.

As you pass underneath the walkway into the general area, you muse how wild it is that only a few hours ago, you were honestly contemplating on starving yourself. Times change, man. They really do.

Stepping carefully over the dead body on the floor, you raise your head just in time to see the main door open.

You stop. Your mind goes blank.

The hand is first. Grey, like the colour of newspaper, but fingers large and thick like sausages. It grabs the roof of the doorway, and attached to it is an arm wrapped in black and a body built like a literal brickhouse, but in the bad sort of definitely not hot way. Ducking beneath the frame is an inhuman face and an inhuman stare settled beneath a ridiculous fedora.

Something makes a squeak. The man (?) looks at you.

“I, uh,” you smile nervously and wet your lips. “I think I have the wrong room?”

Wrong move. He takes a massive step forward. Something tells you he is _not_ about to give a giant, friendly hug. 

_RUN. _

You shriek and book it to the other door by the stairs. You barrel into the next room, nearly tripping when the air behind your neck _vibrates_, followed by the sound of tight leather scrunching around an empty, tightened fist.

You duck forward and hold your chest tight. You’d hold your jittery heart, but it’s in the lead by a mile already.

The next door opens violently under your weight, giving entrance to the long, darkened hallway.

Moonlight spills in through the windows. The furthest one is broken, letting rain and wind pour in. You can’t see shit without Leon’s flashlight, but that’s the last of your concerns.

Heavy boots shake the floor beneath your feet. The windows rattle and it’s like the action music to your own horror movie. You can almost hear the sick beat in your ears.

You sprint and grab the corner wall, using it to swing rightwards into the next stretch of hallway. Breath comes out in pants, shins throbbing under the sudden exertion. 

You don’t know where you’re going. You just know that it’s anywhere but here. Anywhere is better without that – that _thing_. Psycho! Monster?

Oh, whatever! It doesn’t matter! You’re gonna die! Your squished guts and exploded brain matter aren’t going to care about what the Murderous Fedora is actually called. They’ll be too dead to care!

Through the bathroom you go, knocking over a tall vase on the way. There isn’t time to look back, but a ceramic clink, a sudden, loud crash, and an enraged growl sends a frantic laugh spilling out of your lips.

And then the instant karma god slaps you in the face. You slip, panic wheezing as the wet and bloody floor sends you sliding across the room. ETA in three, two–

The locker door dents. Not a lot, but, _shit_. Shoulder ouchie. Shoulder not be happy later.

Scrambling for footing, you claw at the bathroom door handle until it opens back into the hallways.

There’s a locker. The metaphorical light bulb forms above your head. In a split second, you grab the padlock, grip it tightly, and heave the locker off its feet. You dodge as it falls into the bathroom and spin around in time to see the Murderous Fedora catch it before it can send him to the floor.

It’s a short distraction, only a few seconds long, but a few seconds is all you need. You dart off with a single-minded focus.

Down the stairs. Dodge the hands flailing through the boarded-up window. Through the hallway. Hallway intersection. Dust reigns over you, the creaking of wood bending and breaking; the pace quickens.

You breathe harshly. The stitch in your side pangs deeply. Think. Pick. You look at the open ceiling vent desperately, but know you won’t make it without a boost.

The shadows on the wall grows. The vestiges of light brought in from the far back window disappear.

Eyes wide and wild, you swallow.

The West Office.

**-.- -. --- -.-. -.- / -.- -. --- -.-. -.- --..-- / --- .--. . -. / ..- .--. / - .... . / -.. --- --- .-. --..-- / .. - .----. ... / .-. . .- .-..**

The floor tremors.

You try to shuffle back, but it’s impossible. There’s no more room to give. You’ve already curled yourself as tightly as you can, knees next to your ears, arms wrapped around your shins.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The pounding is in your ears. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four – this isn’t the apartment, this isn’t–

The West Office door is broken off its hinges. It flies and lands into your field of vision. The wood is splintered, and a large, bloodied boot print stains the paint job.

Your mouth is stale with fear. It twinges with sharp pain. Copper blooms.

You don’t know what to do. The footsteps slow down; not just in number, but you hear it, can practically _feel_ the meticulous way it lays down the heel of a boot first, the slow drawl until the toes meet the floor as well.

Like it’s considering. Thinking.

If you open your eyes… if you open them–

Right there. Just a little to the left. Standing idly, as if it’s alright. It’s got time. It can out wait you. It will.

You repress a sob. Hold your breath.

For an eternity, you sit there frozen. Like a statue on the garden fountain, bearing signs of erosion and the passage of time; or the Goddess who would better fit in a horror mansion than a police station. Urgh. This stupid RPD and it’s stupid statue and it’s stupid secret passageway.

It doesn’t move either. No more steps. You can’t even hear it breathe. You don’t think it needs to.

The floorboards creak. Leather goes taut.

It’s found you, it knows where you are – a tear, and another, spill from your eyes, and just when you sense the air moving as its hand – the hand that crushed _Ben_ into gory little bits, the hand that’s going to crush _you_ into gory little bits – reaches down and grabs your–

Nothing.

Hesitantly, you lift up your head, eyes still smelted shut but up you go. You strain your ears. It’s empty. _Empty_ empty. As if there had been a weight in the air, and now it’s just… gone. Disappeared.

Very slowly, you crack open an eye. Look around. Everything is the same as it was before. Even the broken door seems innocuous, despite the devastating crack running through the middle. You’re at a loss.

It’s you. Just… you.

Like the snap of a finger, or the crack of a skull breaking under the force of a bullet, everything comes crashing down, and you have no choice but to slump over in total exhaustion. Your eyes slip shut and your temple gently collides with the oak wood desk, sliding down until you’ve curled up into a ball on the dirty floor. You’re too far gone to care about how disgusting it is down here, about all the germs and things that are probably crawling onto your skin and making it a home. By the time you get up, they’ll have established a tiny family restaurant and have a detailed history that dates ten generations back and ten generations wide.

Fatigue grips you tight and pulls you under.

It’s numbing.

For now, you’re safe. But not for long. The footsteps are gone, but he’s still out there. Lurking, looking. Searching. The RPD is not that big. He doesn’t strike you as the type to talk fashion and gossip over tea and cake.

_God_. You shudder. You can already hear the hell that Leon is–

_Leon!_ You bolt upwards, panic consuming you.

You scramble to your feet, clipping the back of your head on the edge of the desk but barely noticing it. This is so bad. Like, monumental bad.

He doesn’t know. He thinks you’re just waiting for him in the main hall. He thinks you’re actually trying to stay out of trouble – okay. Lie. But you doubt that this is the sort of trouble he had in mind. 

Fuck the electronic piece. Fuck the tower.

New objective: find Leon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. you can use any translator to translate the morse code XD
> 
> I'd do it myself.... but I don't think it's as funny that way


End file.
